Please Don't Read the Verdict
by TheFifteenthMoon
Summary: AU. District Attorney Roderich Edelstein is faced with a gruesome, controversial murder. He has three months to build a case against the accused, but more than his will to prosecute may be destroyed in the process. PruAus, with USUK, AusHun, and more.
1. Chapter 1

**(A/N: So this is going to be my first chapter story, I believe, but not terribly long, I don't think. It's another Prussia/Austria, which will serve as the main pairing, but will feature other wondrous pairings as well, including USUK, Austria/Hungary, Switzerland/Austria, and more.**

**This story was also inspired by the song "You're Crashing, But You're No Wave" by Fall Out Boy, so I may or may not use the lyrics of this song throughout the story. Regardless, you might want to give the song or at least the lyrics a glance if you plan to stick around!**

**I don't own Hetalia or these characters, but I do own this storyline.**

**WARNINGS: Disturbing images, coarse language, sexual themes in later chapters, law-related themes, human names only, gang violence, slash/yaoi/shounen-ai, and more. Ye have been warned.**

**Enjoy!)**

* * *

It seemed a normal day, that morning at the police station. Arthur Kirkland, Velt City's Chief of Police, came into the station at his usual time, his green eyes still somewhat bleary with sleep; he was miserable without his morning tea and scones, so as soon as he had unlocked his office, the first direction he went was towards some hot water.

About five minutes later, the Chief was seated at his desk, sipping mildly on a mug of Earl Grey tea while two scones – his breakfast – sat neatly stacked upon a napkin next to him. The thick-browed blonde was very much enjoying these moments of alone time as he prepared himself for the day (which he expected would be filled with paperwork) when a knock on his office door jarred him from his solitude.

"This had better be bloody important," he hissed to himself in his rich British accent, setting the warm mug down on the desk and pushing out his chair slightly. "Come in," he called out, and watched irately as the door cracked open.

In stepped the imposing figure of Berwald Oxenstierna, one of the more striking members of the force... and Arthur had been thinking the man was due for a promotion, before he came busting into his office so early in the damn morning with... a... box?

Officer Oxenstierna stood silently by the door, just holding the package in his arms, until the Chief snapped, "Well, what is it?"

The tall blonde held out the box without a word.

"Well, speak up! I don't have the bleeding time for charades at such an ungodly hour of the morning," Kirkland snapped, raising the mug to his lips for another sip.

"Package came f'r you, Chief," the officer responded after a moment, though he seemed unaffected by the Chief's early morning irritation.

"Who from?" Arthur straightened in his chair slightly as the towering man stepped into his office.

"D'sn't say, but 's addressed t' you, Chief." Sometimes, Arthur had to admit that Berwald's accent was a bit difficult to decipher, but he'd gotten used to it by now. He watched as the man crossed the room and set the cardboard box on his desk; indeed, the label on the top did indicate that it was addressed to him.

He looked up at Officer Oxenstierna, who returned his gaze with a level stare from behind the lenses of his glasses. "Is that all?" he asked curtly.

The taller blonde nodded briskly.

"Dismissed," Kirkland muttered with a slight wave of his hand; the officer grunted in understanding and headed for the door as the British police chief began to tear the tape off the top of the box. As he folded back the flaps, a sickening stench hit him right in the face, causing him to cough and sputter and pull his face away; it smelled quite a bit like meat left out to rot.

Rotting meat...

"Oh, hell..." Arthur's eyes widened into great green dinner plates of shock and utter disgust, feeling a hand fly to his mouth to prevent him from losing what little breakfast he'd eaten so far all over his desk. "F-fucking..." He was running to the door now, throwing it open, shouting orders and commands at the shocked policeman who all at once began to move, dropping their doughnuts, rushing about to inform others and pushing into Arthur's office to seize the box and its gruesome contents...

...for inside the box were three putrid severed heads.

* * *

_(Three weeks later...)_

"So did you hear? They caught that murderer last night."

The young man seated at the kitchen table looked up from his newspaper, his dark blue-violet eyes glancing at his girlfriend over the rims of his squarish spectacles. "Which murderer? There's a new one or two in this city every day."

"The one who killed those three people…you know which. Happened a few weeks ago, not a shred of evidence, mailed the severed heads to the police station?"

"Oh. That one." The man's eyes switched back to his newspaper; he was reading the Arts section of the Morning Times, scanning a review on the orchestra that had played at City Hall the night before. "Who was it?"

"They say it was a violinist from an orchestra…they arrested him after the performance last night."

He froze. His eyes fixed on the paper in his hand, staring intently at the heading, at the small, black and white picture taken the previous evening of the musicians onstage. They were caught mid-melody, all of them seeming poised and professional and…utterly innocent. He stared at the picture for a long time, as if the murderer would somehow reveal himself from amidst the various shades of gray, the smudgy details of the newsprint photograph. Though he had taken part in the investigation, his role was, for the most part, played exclusively after the criminal had been caught… but this. A musician. The orchestra. He had almost gone to see the performance yesterday evening…

"Roderich? Something wrong?" His girlfriend was peering at him with an arched eyebrow from the counter, where she was making coffee.

"Oh…" He exhaled slowly, as if to calm himself, and folded the newspaper in half, snapping the article in two. "No, dear. It's nothing."

She looked unconvinced, but turned back to the coffee pot, opening a cupboard above her head and pulling two mugs from its depths.

"So will you be prosecuting this one?" she asked conversationally after a moment, glancing over her shoulder at him.

"Of course I will. One of the victims was the brother of the Mayor." Roderich set the paper down and sighed quietly, running a hand through his chocolate-brown hair. That one strand was sticking up again…he would have to gel it down, or else risk being teased by his coworkers. They seemed to love to find any reason to humiliate him. His hair, his clothes, his manner of speech, the beauty mark just below his lips…

But they were of no concern to him. His job was his priority when he walked into that office. As the District Attorney of Velt City, he couldn't allow anything as petty as a snide comment or two to get in the way of his career.

"I suppose this means I'm prosecuting with you." His girlfriend was pouring the rich brown liquid into two cups.

"Well, Elizaveta, you are the Assistant District Attorney," he noted, rising from his chair and crossing the linoleum floor of the kitchen to the counter. He put a hand on her shoulder and smiled at her; she glanced back at him, her own lips pulling upward affectionately. After a moment, she pressed her finger lightly to the tip of his nose.

"Boop." Her eyes and tone were teasing, her smile turning playful.

Roderich felt his cheeks go pink, and he pushed up his glasses with his index finger, slightly flustered. She chuckled at him.

"You're so cute when you're embarrassed." She pecked him on the cheek, sliding a warm, steaming mug into his hands as she did so. "Here's your coffee, dear."

"Ah…thanks." He smiled back at her after a moment, a small, slow smile – he was still getting adjusted to the complexities of love and all its little quirks and foibles. After all, before he had met Elizaveta…

Well. That time of his life was over. For good. There was no use thinking about it anymore.

"Try not to be so uptight, won't you, Roddy?" she asked, winking at him teasingly.

"Don't call me Roddy," he argued, the slightest of frowns on his lips.

"Case in point." She grinned at him and took up her own coffee mug, sashaying over to the table with an easy sort of grace. Elizaveta could be rather unladylike at times, but she was most certainly attractive, with a distinct poise and character in how she held herself… a personality. Roderich found it utterly charming.

"So do you think we can win?" she asked, taking a muffin from the plate at the center of the kitchen table.

"It'll be difficult due to the significant lack of evidence…but I think we can pull through." He smiled positively, joining her at the table. "I'll have about three months after the arraignment to build my case. That's enough time to build an argument great enough to floor the jury."

"You're such an optimist, Roderich." She leaned her head against his shoulder, taking a bite of muffin – the kitchen was silent for a moment as she chewed. "I like it," she added upon swallowing, setting her mug down on the table and looking up at him.

He felt his chest flutter slightly. The fact that she seemed to accept him so wholly still gave him butterflies; being satisfactory, or even tolerable, to someone was a new and fascinating experience for him.

"I wouldn't have been elected if I wasn't," he reflected, pulling out her chair for her.

"And a gentleman, too." She was grinning again as she sat down, taking another bite of the pastry in her hand.

He smiled back at her, his own expression calmer, more restrained than hers – he couldn't remember the last time he had smiled as widely as she did.

"Well, time to get ready for work." Roderich kissed the top of his girlfriend's head affectionately; she positively beamed up at him. "I'll see you at the office, alright?"

"Of course." Elizaveta dipped her head in agreement. Flashing her one more of his tiny smiles, Roderich grabbed a muffin of his own from the table and headed out of the kitchen.

* * *

"Good morning, Edelstein."

"Oh. Good morning, Eduard." Roderich offered a polite wave to the blonde and bespectacled Eduard von Bock as the man passed him in the hallway. He had a to-go cup of what was probably coffee in his hand.

"That case you've got… it will be fairly difficult to prosecute, don't you think?" Eduard asked, his bright blue eyes glancing inquisitively at his recently-arrived coworker; it had been only a half an hour since Roderich had left the kitchen to prepare for work.

Roderich smiled. "I think I can manage."

The blonde man grimaced slightly. "I hope so," he responded, straightening his tie. "By the way, your secretary told me you have an appointment…" He glanced down at his watch. "…now."

Roderich's eyes widened a fraction. "What? When was this scheduled?"

"I'm not sure…but I would hurry. It seems important." He offered the brunette a nod, indicating the direction of the DA's office before sweeping off down the hall, straight-backed and official as always.

"W-well, ah, thank you for informing me," Roderich called after him before he hurried down the hallway in the other direction.

"Ah, Mr. Edelstein, good morning!" His young secretary smiled pleasantly at him from the desk as Roderich approached, straightening a stack of papers she must have been filing as she hung up the phone receiver in her hand. "There's a man waiting for you in your office…a Mister…Braginski?"

Roderich felt his muscles tense slightly. Braginski…it couldn't possibly be Ivan Braginski, could it? Ivan Braginski, the known leader of Velt City's most prominent Russian mob family, known only in rumor for his brutal behavior towards his foes and his love of scarves, sunflowers, lead pipes, and vodka...no, Ivan Braginski wouldn't dare walk into his office, regardless of whether or not they had the evidence to prosecute him…would he?

"…thank you, Helena," he managed, his eyes flitting nervously to his office door.

"Something wrong, sir?" The girl was watching him with an intent, confused, and slightly concerned expression.

"No, of course not. Everything is fine." He tried to muster a reassuring smile, offered her an acknowledging, "Carry on" sort of nod, and slipped into his office before Helena could get another word in. Closing the door behind him, he sank against it just slightly, exhaling.

"Ah… Counselor. I have been waiting for you."

The slightly high-pitched voice, thick with a Russian accent, nearly startled Roderich. His gaze shot up abruptly from the floor, eyes lighting on the intimidating form of Ivan Braginski almost instantly. The man seemed to be making himself comfortable in a chair before Roderich's desk; there was a sunflower resting neatly on the tabletop, almost like a peace offering.

"Mr. Braginski," he greeted curtly, with a crisp nod of acknowledgment. His gaze remained fixed on the mobster as he crossed the room to his chair, too wary of the man to turn his back to him for an instant. He took his seat rather stiffly and raised his chin a fraction in a fashion almost challenging, his deep bluish eyes locking with the Russian's violet.

"What brings you to my office?" he asked calmly. "One would think you would steer clear of a place of the law."

"Now, let's not be hasty, shall we, Counselor?" Roderich wasn't sure if he was imagining the slightly mocking tone in Braginski's voice as he said 'Counselor' in that too-pleasant tone of his. The word sounded funny and foreign when spoken with the infamous mobster's distinctive accent.

The man across from him was smiling. He did not smile back.

"I have come to you because I heard about the, eh…arrest last night, da?" Braginski's smile grew just a fraction, but Roderich's face remained impassive, eyes fixed steadily on the foreign gangster.

"And what do you know about the arrest?" Roderich asked, his voice as even as the neat stack of papers at his side.

"I know that bastard killed my big sister." There was ice in Braginski's words now, his eyes growing cold and hard with fury bubbling under his smooth façade. He looked marvelously serene, all things considered; Roderich would have been impressed, had Braginski not been one of his main targets for future prosecution.

"I want you to know, Counselor, that I will do anything I can to bring that…_Volk_ to justice." Braginski's smile was pleasant again, still acting as a mask for the maniac Roderich knew loomed just below the surface. _"Anything," _the Russian emphasized, drawing his index finger subtly across his throat as he adjusted the scarf around his neck.

Roderich frowned. The last thing he needed was the Russian mob knocking off the defendant for the month's biggest murder case.

"Well, it's wonderful to know we have your support, Mr. Braginski, but I think the DA's office can handle this without any outside help." Roderich did muster a smile this time, but it was utterly devoid of humor, almost sardonic.

Braginski seemed unfazed. "Then can I at least ask," the tall man drawled, tilting his head to the side so his shaggy beige hair shifted around his face, "that I remain, eh…what is English phrase… 'in the loop' when it comes to this case? Is very personal for me, da? I would be most grateful." His smile was infuriatingly peaceful again. "Maybe…you tell me things about case, mm? And I can…repay you for your great kindness, of course." The man rubbed his fingers together subtly, that maddening smile growing just a fraction.

Roderich did not return the gangsters smile, instead getting to his feet and leaning across the table; Braginski did not move away, but almost inclined himself forward, as if challenging the District Attorney's authority. He was wearing that distinctive trenchcoat of his again, Roderich noted silently to himself as he stared the man down.

"The only things you will learn about this case," Roderich said, speaking slowly, clearly, and calmly, "is what will be printed in the newspapers, Mr. Braginski."

A slight pout came to the Russian's features. "That is a shame to hear, Counselor," the man noted. "I have so much to…offer you." He examined his fingernails placidly before glancing over at Roderich once more, his violet eyes cast in shadow. "I hope you are not making the wrong decision, Roderich Edelstein. It would be a shame if anything happened to you…or your Assistant District Attorney…while you were working such an important case, da?"

The brunette narrowed his eyes in contempt. "You don't scare me, Braginski," he said quietly; his tone would have been a hiss if not for the lingering courtesy that was always present in his voice. It was so difficult to keep the slight quiver out of his words, the anxiety, as scenario after gruesome scenario shot through his mind – not of himself being harmed, but of Elizaveta, endangered by his own reckless actions.

But no… this action was not reckless. Roderich was a man of honor, and under no circumstances would he collaborate with the mafia. Elizaveta understood what it meant to hold her position, and what it meant to be romantically involved with Velt City's District Attorney. She knew the risks. She knew he would do what was right, not what was easy. He would not have been elected DA if he was not willing to put his life on the line to uphold justice in this city.

Ivan Braginski was still watching him coolly from across the desk. "Like I said, Counselor," he noted as he stood, "I hope you are not making the wrong decision. Have a good day, da?" His little wave was slightly derisive in its sweet simplicity before the lofty Russian turned on the heel of his boot and left the office; the hanging ends of his scarf jerked into motion with the brusqueness of his walk and fluttered behind him like the tails of a kite as he departed.

Roderich did not see the door close. His eyes were fixed on the window, looking past the glass and the steel window frame and even past the office buildings and skyscrapers beyond. They saw everything and nothing, all at once.

_Whatever is necessary, _he resolved silently to himself. _Whatever the obstacles, I _will _make this city a better place. _

* * *

**(A/N: Before you Russia fans all jump on me for casting Ivan as an ebil mobster, please note that he is actually one of my favorite characters, and I have a ridiculously good time writing for him as a creepy Soviet. And I also love the mafia. Therefore, it is a position I give him lovingly. :3**

**This chapter involved a lot of setup for the actual story, and the rest of the important characters will be established in the next chapter, including the accused murderer and the mayor. Be looking for it in the next few days. Hope I kept you entertained~ Reviews are wonderful, by the way.)**


	2. Chapter 2

**(A/N: And just like that, it's time for Chapter Two!**

**This chapter is considerably longer than the last. I wanted to get a few specific scenes in so I can start having more fun with Gilbert in the next chapter. And I apologize for any slight OOCness [you are welcome to point it out _constructively_, please, if it bothers you horribly] but do keep in mind this is AU and I have to adapt characters slightly for their roles in the story. Thanks~**

**Enjoy! I'll also be posting a running total of pairings that are/will be in this story in the Author's Note of the first chapter shortly.)**

* * *

The next day at the arraignment was the District Attorney's first glimpse of the defendant.

Gilbert Beilschmidt was an attractive young man around Roderich's age. He was lean, but it was not the same willowy slenderness as Roderich – rather, Beilschmidt's form was trim and toned, subtly muscular beneath his clothes. His eyes were an unusual crimson and mildly malicious in nature, his hair messy, somewhat spiky, and silvery-white. The man had surprisingly distinctive eyebrows, and they slanted sharply downwards over his eyes in a way that made him seem eternally derisive. He wore a Prussian blue blazer, but no tie, and the first button of his button-down shirt was undone, making the whole outfit seem more casual than Roderich would have thought one would want to be at an arraignment. He didn't seem like much of a musician, the brunette reflected scornfully to himself, but he certainly seemed like a murderer.

Though he certainly wasn't drowning in his guilt, judging by the smug smile on his face.

"Case number 183, three counts murder in the first degree. How does the defendant plead?" The judge, an impassive man of Norwegian descent, observed Beilschmidt with an unreadable expression.

"Not guilty," the defendant responded, looking straight back into the judge's eyes with his own as he put careful emphasis on each word. He was still smiling in an obscenely complacent way as he spoke that immediately irritated Roderich.

"Your Honor, this man murdered three people, including the brother of Mayor Jones," Roderich chimed in immediately, hardly even sparing a glance at the man to his left. "The prosecution requests remand without bail."

"What a suggestion, Your Honor!" Roderich recognized the counselor for the defense as Francis Bonnefoy – the flamboyant blonde certainly had more charisma than he did, and for all his antics and rumored sexual escapades, the man was undoubtedly a fantastic attorney when it came down to it. This case would definitely be a challenge, he reflected to himself… but he was ready.

"My client has absolutely no evidence against him," Bonnefoy continued. "The idea that he should have 'remand without bail' is absurd when they can't even prove Mr. Beilschmidt has done wrong."

"Mr. Beilschmidt would not have been arrested if there wasn't some sort of evidence against him," Roderich argued.

"No doubt purely circumstantial, non?" Bonnefoy winked at him, and Roderich felt his stomach sink in repulsion.

"Your Honor, not only does Mr. Beilschmidt have a criminal record—"

"My client may have had some childhood mishaps, Your Honor, but that's no reason for this ridiculous proposal—"

"Might I add that the defendant is also accused of the murder of Ivan Braginski's elder sister," Roderich cut in, his voice loud, but smooth. "It would be…dangerous for him to be out on the streets, with a man like that as his enemy." He caught Beilschmidt staring at him out of his peripheral vision, but he visibly ignored him.

"I wouldn't think of you as the type to be considerate towards the well-being of this man, Counselor Edelstein," the judge noted, turning his expressionless eyes towards Roderich.

"I just want to see him brought to justice by our side of the law, Your Honor," Roderich responded, his face serious and unruffled.

"…hm." The justice thought for a moment, then spoke. "Bail is set at one million dollars."

"Your Honor—" the two attorneys began in unison.

"My decision is final." The man banged his gavel against the podium. "Next case."

* * *

"That went well," Elizaveta noted as the two of them left court. Her thick, light brown hair was pulled back today; it made her look more severe and professional than she did when it was hanging down.

"I would have liked it if he'd gotten remand _without _bail," Roderich responded, somewhat flatly, studying the stream of people flowing from the courtroom.

"I suppose that would have been best," Elizaveta replied, "but he probably can't afford a million dollars in bail, anyway. Cheer up, Roddy." She punched him teasingly in the shoulder and smiled at him. Roderich smiled back, somewhat weakly.

"Don't call me Roddy," he mumbled under his breath as he watched Beilschmidt be led from the courtroom in handcuffs.

"Hey, careful with the merchandise," the red-eyed young man was saying as he was jostled by a guard. He was still smiling – how was he still smiling? His bail had just been set at a million dollars and that moron still had the nerve to—

"Roderich? Something wrong?"

"What?" He looked at Elizaveta innocently.

"Well, you were glaring at that jerk like you wanted to rend his head from his shoulders. No offense, dear, but you're really not the violent type—"

She was still talking, but he tuned out after that, instead watching Beilschmidt be led away by security. He was chatting and laughing with Bonnefoy as if the two had known each other forever, as if he wasn't being led away to jail, as if he hadn't murdered three people. Roderich felt his temper flare again as his hands balled into tight fists. This was the reason he'd become an attorney – to put scumbags like Gilbert Beilschmidt away for life.

The convoy passed Elizaveta and him on its way out the door, and Roderich saw Beilschmidt's gaze travel to him. The attractive albino gave him a once-over, then caught his eye and winked at him suggestively.

Roderich felt his face flush with indignant rage, but he did not break eye contact, his nostrils flaring with anger and his eyes narrowing just a fraction. He felt Elizaveta's hand on his shoulder, but it did not matter – Beilschmidt and his sordidly smirking face were taking up space in Roderich's line of sight. The albino's smirk became slightly less derisive as he was hustled out the door…and then he was gone.

"Roderich?"

He was silent, seething with rage beneath a mask of mild irritation.

"Roderich! Hey!" Elizaveta snapped her fingers in front of his face, and his gaze shot to her, seeming almost surprised. "Get a hold of yourself. He's just another jerk-off to put behind bars."

"…right," he responded after a short moment of silence. He took a deep breath – in two three four, out two three four – and nodded, almost to himself. "You're right." Mustering a smile, he reached for her hand; her fingers twitched at the contact and intertwined themselves with his.

"Of course I'm right." Her own smile was a little cheeky. "Come on, you have a case to organize in the next three months. There's no time to waste."

* * *

"Sir, you got a call from the mayor while you were at the arraignment!" Helena greeted him cheerfully as he returned to his office, and he glanced at her, blinking.

"The mayor?"

"Yes, he asked me to tell you to call him back when you return. He wants to know how the case is shaping up."

"Oh…yes, of course." He inclined his head in thanks and headed into his office, finding it thankfully empty of Russian mobsters or anyone else to bother him. Taking a seat at his desk, he took a deep breath, picked up the phone, and dialed for the mayor.

A secretary picked up on the second ring. "Mayor's office."

"Afternoon," he greeted, trying to sound cordial. "May I speak with Mayor Jones?"

"Whom may I say is calling?"

"Roderich Edelstein."

"Oh. Good afternoon, Mr. District Attorney. I'll transfer your call."

"Thank you." He sat back slightly in his chair, his fingers tapping out a rhythm on his desk as if playing the piano.

There was a short pause, and then… "Edelstein! I was hoping you'd call me back."

"Hello, Mr. Mayor." It was no surprise how Alfred Jones had been elected mayor of Velt City – though he could seem a bit silly at times, he was friendly, relatable, and had charisma to spare, not to mention an infectiously jovial smile.

"Would you like to stop by?" Mayor Jones questioned. "I'd like to hear how the case is shaping up." Though the mayor's tone seemed just as gregarious as usual, there was a falsity to it that Roderich could recognize; the man had just lost his brother, after all. Alfred bounced back easily from most things, but even Roderich knew the outgoing young mayor had to be hurting.

"I have the time if you do, Mr. Mayor," Roderich replied, glancing at his watch. 2:31 PM. He hadn't had lunch yet, and he'd barely eaten breakfast this morning. His stomach rumbled almost contemplatively as he remembered how hungry he was.

Though Roderich was a hard worker when it came to things that were important to him, he also had the habit of putting his hobbies before work on occasion – and though it didn't show much thanks to his fast metabolism and somewhat dainty—er, that is, _small _appetite, eating was one of his hobbies. He had a particular weakness for cake, but that was an impractical lunch food...he'd probably just pick up a salad.

Or maybe...just today...to make himself feel a little better about the arraignment and restore his optimism...he could treat himself. Cake for lunch. He liked the sound of that.

It was only after a few seconds of following this train of thought that Roderich realized the mayor was speaking.

"—and I figured it would be good for my image if I ate amongst the citizens today, plus I _really _wanted a hamburger. Did you know I haven't had a hamburger in two days? It was...what's the word...obscene, that's the one!"

"Ah, excuse me, Mr. Mayor—" Roderich cut in quietly, tapping his fingers on the desk again.

"What? Oh! Right, right, yeah. Um, yes, just drop by anytime, Edelstein, you're welcome in my office."

"Thank you, sir."

"Now, we'll chat later, so get your well-groomed pansy ass into my office, yeah? See you later!" And with that, Mayor Jones had hung up before Roderich could question the man on the nature of that comment about his ass.

* * *

As he had promised himself, Roderich took a detour en route to City Hall and the energetic mayor in favor of his most preferred café and bakery; a quaint, out-of-the-way place named "Tino's" on the corner of Vienna Street and Paris Avenue, and a frequent haunt for Roderich. From the pastel colors of the awnings and window frames to the earthy tones within, there was a relaxing, almost Zen vibe to the place that immediately set Roderich's mind at ease upon entering – and it often needed to be set at ease, as he was always, always thinking, constantly preoccupied. He exhausted himself, and this was where he came to recharge.

Slipping inside, he recognized for the thousandth time how hideously out of place he seemed here. Though the café did have a sophisticated air to it that normally would have suited him, the tranquil and slightly hip feel of it seemed to clash with his professional, refined air. This place had a sort of easy serenity to it, whereas everything about Roderich seemed practiced and moderated with a slight self-consciousness. He loved it here, but under no circumstances did he believe he fit in with the other customers, and it made him feel unpleasantly insecure.

However, his uncertainty faded as it always did as soon as he saw the brightly smiling face of Tino Väinämöinen, the cheerful owner of the shop he had named after himself. Something about the young man was just welcoming, and though they probably never would have communicated outside of the café, within its walls they were on very good terms.

"Afternoon, Roderich!" the beaming Tino greeted as he wiped down the marble counter with a rag. "What can I get for you today?"

"Good afternoon, Tino." Roderich mustered a small smile in return and a courteous dip of his head. "I'd like a slice of cake, if you wouldn't mind."

"Sure," the sunny man responded. "Any specific kind, or should I surprise you?"

"You know my preferences. I hate to impose, but I really lack the patience to consider it too deeply today...would you just pick one out for me, please?" Roderich exhaled, allowing his shoulders to slump just a fraction below where they had been before.

"Bad day at the office?" Tino asked, looking slightly concerned; his smile did not disappear, but it scaled down to only a mild glow.

"Something like that," Roderich muttered.

"Well, some cake will fix you up. I'll go get it." His grin widening once again, Tino hurried off into the kitchen, leaving the dishearted District Attorney to take a seat at a table nearby.

He was absorbing the soft jazz playing in the background and the delectable scents wafting from the kitchen when a voice drew his attention.

"Ahh, Roderich Edelstein. Fancy seeing you here."

Almost irritated at the disturbance, Roderich's eyes flickered open just in time to see the approaching figure of Francis Bonnefoy – Beilschmidt's defense attorney. Roderich had won and lost cases to the man in the past, and their rivalry was ongoing, skewed slightly into absurdity by Bonnefoy's constant attempts to flirt with him despite Roderich's insistence that he was taken. He was told that was just the Frenchman's flamboyant nature at work, but he found it no less annoying despite.

"Hello, Mr. Bonnefoy," Roderich greeted, trying his very hardest not to sound curt. It didn't work.

Bonnefoy seemed unaffected despite, taking up a seat next to Roderich, and the brunette was too polite to tell him off right then and there, or he would have; as it was, he simply twitched an eyebrow in annoyance and allowed his gaze to drift to the blonde lawyer.

How someone like Francis Bonnefoy ever got into the law career was absolutely beyond him.

"How are you today? I'd think you'd be a bit more cheerful after the arraignment." Bonnefoy was so close to him that Roderich was vaguely aware of the scent of roses, which he supposed was the attorney's cologne.

It smelled more like women's perfume. He didn't think that was coincidental.

"I would have liked remand without bail, though I can't say I'm completely dissatisfied," Roderich responded coolly, though he barely made eye contact with his rival counselor.

"One million dollars dissatisfies you, Roderich?" Bonnefoy chuckled. "My, my, you _do _have high expectations, don't you, mon cher?"

"Please don't call me that," Roderich requested darkly.

Bonnefoy smiled at him in an infuriating sort of way. "Why not?"

"I'm not your 'mon cher,'" Roderich responded. "Now, if you'll excuse me, my cake is ready." Though Tino was just exiting the kitchen at that moment, Roderich wanted every excuse to get away from Francis Bonnefoy, so he stood as quickly as possible and returned to the counter.

"Here you are, Roderich." Tino waltzed up to the counter from the kitchen doors and placed a plate on the counter with a pristine slice of chocolate cake upon it, decked out in vanilla icing with shreds of white chocolate and a neatly-placed strawberry on top. A red syrup – probably strawberry or raspberry in flavor – was drizzled over the cake and onto the plate. To most, the exact details of such a slice of cake would not be so focal, but Roderich considered himself a connoisseur when it came to pastries, and things like that were just important to him.

Though Roderich found it beyond his capabilities to smile after his encounter with Bonnefoy, he inclined his head civilly to Tino, thanked him in a soft voice, paid him for the cake, and carried the plate to a table entirely across the room from the one he had just been sitting at, hoping the grating Frenchman would not follow him.

But, of course, he did.

"Running away from me, Roderich?" Bonnefoy asked with a sing-song note in his voice, taking the seat across from the District Attorney. "How impolite."

"Please do not lecture me on manners, Mr. Bonnefoy," Roderich responded flatly, taking up the fork that had been placed on the side of the plate and taking a bite of cake. He tried to focus on the exquisite symphony of flavors in the pastry - the rich melody of the chocolate, accented beautifully by the vanilla and fruity accompaniment - rather than Bonnefoy's voice.

"You're wrong about Gilbert, you know," the French attorney said after a moment. Though Roderich knew Francis had emigrated from France as a boy, the accent in his voice, though underplayed, was still recognizable. He could only speculate that the man used it to his advantage when courting women...and men, more than likely. Bonnefoy was connected to more than one sexual scandal in the city.

Looking up in an almost mockingly polite fashion, Roderich raised one eyebrow just a fraction. "I'm afraid I don't know what you mean."

"Gilbert, mon ami. The man you are prosecuting. Don't tell me you don't know his name." Bonnefoy looked at him in slightly derisive disbelief.

"I do know his name. I'm simply not accustomed to him being addressed that way," Roderich replied, taking another bite of cake and reflecting on how much better it would taste had he been eating it alone. "I know you'll tell me anyway, but I'll grant you the courtesy of asking – _how _am I wrong about him?"

"He simply wouldn't do something like this," Bonnefoy replied with an easy smile. "I've been friends with Gilbert for years—"

"Then you are simply biased," Roderich cut in, his tone seeming a bit scornful from the repetition.

"Hear me out, please, mon cher." The Frenchman's eyes were big and blue and persuasive; Roderich rolled his own, but he made no further comment, allowing the defense attorney to continue.

"You haven't even met him, so how can you expect to accuse him of such a horrid crime? Might I suggest you stop by the county jail and pay him a visit?" Bonnefoy proposed, leaning across the table. Roderich retracted into his seat, visibly moving his plate away as well. His companion once again seemed unruffled by Roderich's obvious distaste for him.

"I don't think that would be appropriate for me," Roderich responded flatly. "I can't allow bias to interfere with my case... which, might I remind you, is three months away from presentation. I would suggest you get a head start now."

"Oh, don't worry about me, Roderich, I can construct my case in three months' time," Bonnefoy replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. "But like I was saying, you really should—"

"Then perhaps you should be working on your case, instead of pestering me." Roderich was not looking at the man across from him; instead, his attention was focused on his cake.

With a slightly wry smile, Bonnefoy leaned back into his chair, interlacing his fingers and setting them in his lap for a moment before raising them in the universal sign of surrender. As Roderich watched the movement of his hands, he noticed what a bright blue the man's suit was. How like him to stick out in that fashion. "Very well, very well, Mr. District Attorney." There was something joking dancing in those blue eyes. "I'll leave you to your luncheon. But the suggestion still stands." Winking playfully at the brunette across from him, he added, "Cute beauty spot," and stood. He had whisked off before Roderich had the chance to make an indignant statement – he only had the time to vocalize a frustrated noise at Bonnefoy's bringing up the mark on his face.

He finished his cake in silence and departed for City Hall.

* * *

"Ah, hello." Roderich stepped up to the desk of the mayor's secretary, a nondescript young woman. "I'm here to speak with the mayor?"

The secretary looked up at him, identified him, and nodded, eyes widening slightly. "Of course, Mr. District Attorney." She picked up the phone, holding it to her ear with her shoulder as she pressed a red button on the device.

Roderich heard someone pick up on the other end, though he couldn't hear the words.

"Mr. Mayor, the District Attorney is here to see you."

More indecipherable noise.

"Yes, I'll send him in." Placing the receiver back in its rightful place, the secretary's gaze switched back to Roderich. "The mayor will see you now, sir."

"Thank you." Normally, Roderich would have made some attempt at a smile – no matter how stiff or small that smile might be – but he found he couldn't even make an attempt today. Passing the secretary's desk, he opened the dark-stained wooden door that led into the mayor's office and stepped inside.

Mayor Alfred F. Jones was once again wearing a bomber jacket over his suit, something he rarely did in public when attempting to look professional, but a pleasure he seemed to delight in whenever he could. He was leaning back in his office chair with his feet on the desk and his hands behind his head, sky-blue eyes bright with energy behind his glasses. He grinned at Roderich as he entered.

"Edelstein! You made it," he greeted, waving the man in. "C'mere, sit down."

Dipping his head respectfully to the mayor, Roderich crossed the carpeted floor and sat in one of the two chairs across the desk from Jones, only then noticing the stiff-looking blonde seated beside him.

The thick eyebrows and green eyes were distinctive – Roderich recognized the man almost instantly as the Chief of Police, Arthur Kirkland. He and Roderich were acquainted, but the two had never really had the opportunity to connect or become friends with each other over time, as their similarities seemed to end at their involvement in criminal justice.

Noticing Roderich looking at him, Kirkland met his eyes and gave him a curt nod. He seemed a little more rigid than usual, the District Attorney noted silently to himself, and while silently analyzing the cause became aware of the tension thick in the air. It was not a tension between himself and any of the office's occupants, but rather seemed to be between the mayor and the Chief of Police; Roderich couldn't put his finger on what, exactly, it was, nor what it meant, but it was decidedly there.

"So, ah..." The mayor re-crossed his ankles and grinned at them both. "I think you two know why I called you up here. I'd like a run-down on the case against my brother Matthew's murderer." The humor in his face seemed to fade slightly, and a seriousness crept into Alfred's tone and face as he spoke of his brother. He gestured to Arthur Kirkland first. "What's the deal with evidence?" Even though he did seem more earnest now, the mayor's language still wasn't very eloquent.

"Well, Mr. Mayor..." Kirkland seemed a bit tense, but he seemed to sort himself out after a moment and become more sober. "We didn't find any legitimate evidence because we had no legitimate crime scene – the, er, the heads, you see..." The police chief seemed hesitant to mention them in the presence of the mayor and faltered for a moment before Jones waved him on. "There wasn't really any evidence in or around the box, but Forensics did find a partial fingerprint on the packaging. Beilschmidt does match as much of that print as we do have, and besides that, a witness places Beilschmidt outside Yekaterina Braginskaya's apartment the night before she was reported missing. He doesn't have a solid alibi for his whereabouts on the night of the murders, as well, and he fits the profile we've created almost to a T."

"Profile?" Jones leaned forward slightly, intrigued.

Kirkland looked away awkwardly for a moment, and Roderich guessed he would have shuffled his feet had he not been sitting down. He found this behavior unusual - Arthur Kirkland was not known as a shy individual. "Ah, yes. Our behavioral analysis team constructed a profile based on what we knew about the murder."

"What sorta profile?" asked the mayor, his eyes intent on Arthur.

The shorter of the two blondes seemed uncomfortable in the limelight, though it seemed the engaged blue light of the mayor's eyes was more disturbing to him than Roderich's steady gaze. "Judging by the victims and the nature of the crime, our team decided that the murderer would have to be extremely arrogant – kind of an arsehole and all that." Alfred blinked at him, missing the meaning of the British slang, but Arthur didn't seem to desire to correct himself. "These people were targeted specifically because of who they were related to: Matthew Williams, the brother of the mayor; Yekaterina Braginskaya, the older sister of Ivan Braginski, a notorious mobster; and Lili Zwingli, the adopted younger sister of Vash Zwingli, the arms dealer. You don't just coincidentally kill three people with important connections like that. This was planned."

"I see," Jones responded, his gaze seeming utterly focused, like he was determined to fully understand everything Kirkland said to him. Roderich was aware of most of the information already due to his limited involvementin the investigation, but remained attentive anyway, eager to pick out new details; he would, of course, have to talk to the Chief more in detail while in the process of forming his case against Beilschmidt, but he wanted to gather all he could from this brief peek at the information that would make or break his case.

"That aside, our team figured as well that the murderer would have to be skilled with tactics and strategizing," Kirkland continued. "All three of these victims would have a greater scale of protection than a regular citizen, due to their connections; for example, Lili Zwingli lives with her brother, and the whole city knows Vash Zwingli sleeps with an AK47 under his pillow and 'e's paranoid as shi—" He stopped himself before finishing the swear, as if realizing it would probably be impolite in the presence of the mayor. "Er...well, regardless, the team also noted the killer was probably a young man – somewhere between twenty and thirty-five – and that he probably lived alone."

"Okaaay," the mayor said, as if prompting him to continue and screw the formalities.

"Gilbert Beilschmidt fits every part of the profile. He's in the proper age range, he's as arrogant as they come, he has a military background as an acclaimed strategist, and he lives alone. That's why we brought him in." Kirkland seemed finished after that, returning to sitting stiffly in his chair and staring steadily at his hands.

"Awesome, sounds like we've got some good evidence," the mayor replied with a grin before averting his attention to Roderich. "How about you, Mr. DA? You got enough to form a good case and bring this villain to justice?" It had occurred to Roderich once before that Alfred Jones often compared things to superhero comics, and that had been when Mayor Jones had made some off-the-record comment to him about wanting to be Superman, and that Roderich would have to be his sidekick. He remembered it as an attempt at impassioning him towards the cause of justice (which Roderich hadn't needed), but he hadn't gotten much out of it. The mayor didn't make much sense when he got into those "I'll play the hero" funks of his – at least, not to anyone but himself.

"I believe so, Mr. Mayor, but there is still a considerable amount of work to be done," Roderich replied, straightening slightly in his seat as he was addressed. "I need to collect witnesses, and construct an argument based on the evidence we do have against Beilschmidt. A good deal of the evidence we have is somewhat circumstantial—"

"Are you calling my evidence impractical, you nancy?" Kirkland hissed, seeming immediately irate.

"Please don't be offended, Chief Kirkland, but this case will be significantly more difficult without solid evidence against the defendant," Roderich replied calmly. He seemed composed in the face of the British policeman's exasperation, a skill he had originally applied to the criminals he faced in the courtroom...

And before that, for different reasons.

"_This isn't good enough, do you understand? This is not good enough."_

"_Yes, Father, I understand."_

Shivering inwardly, Roderich refocused his attention on the mayor, who had just finished cleaning his glasses and was now readjusting them on his face.

"Regardless, that does not mean that we do not have a case," he continued, casting a sideways glance at Kirkland – who was now seething quietly in his chair at Roderich's supposed accusation. "In fact, quite the opposite. Judging from what I've heard, we've a good deal of evidence against Beilschmidt already, and with a little more insistent digging from the DA's office, I'm certain that we will be able to build a solid case. I would have to say our main problem is the attorney for the defense."

"Why, who's the defense attorney?" Jones asked, looking confused.

"Francis Bonnefoy," Roderich responded, trying to keep the contempt out of his words as he spoke; the man wasn't in a fond light with him after that encounter at Tino's. "You may remember him from the occasional scandal he's involved in, Mr. Mayor."

"Ohhh, the Frenchie, right!" Had Roderich been a more expressive man, he might have chuckled as the mayor snapped his fingers and sat up a little straighter in his chair, as well as at the nickname he was so quick to use for Bonnefoy. As it was, he hid a smile in his hand, a long-time habit of his.

"_Why are__ you smiling? Wipe that silly grin off your face, Roderich!"_

"So what do we have to worry about with Bonnefoy?" the mayor cut in, interrupting his thoughts as he tilted his head to the side.

"Despite his inability to stay out of personal trouble, Bonnefoy is an exceptional attorney, especially in the field of charisma. He is also close friends with the defendant already, meaning he is strongly biased and far more determined to win this case. I'm unsure what kind of argument he'll construct, but it will definitely be a strong one." Roderich refolded his hands in his lap.

"Well, I'm sure you can build a better case, right, Sidekick?" Jones winked at him and grinned, and Roderich mustered a considerably smaller smile in return. He wasn't sure if he was comfortable being Alfred's "Sidekick," but he supposed there wasn't much to be done about it.

"Of course, sir," he responded, with some optimism.

"Awesome!" The young mayor was beaming. "So, is there anything else?"

"...ah." Roderich recalled Bonnefoy's suggestion to visit Beilschmidt, wondering if he should voice that to the mayor.

"Hm?" Jones was watching him expectantly.

"...well, Mr. Mayor, I'm not sure how much recognition we can give this..." Roderich pulled on his collar slightly, feeling uneasiness swell in his stomach as he recalled the sight of Beilschmidt being dragged away...that awful wink...

"Give what?" the mayor prompted, raising his eyebrows.

"Out with it, I have work to do," Kirkland grumbled from the seat next to him.

"Bonnefoy...made the suggestion that I should visit Beilschmidt," the brunette concluded uncomfortably, looking away from Alfred.

"Hey, there's an idea!" The mayor was grinning again, and Roderich felt his stomach sink.

"I don't really think it's necessary—" the District Attorney began, but he was cut off by Alfred's blatant enthusiasm.

"Why not? It'll give you a look into the mind of the killer, right? All the better to build your case!" Jones seemed about to continue when the phone on his desk rang. He scooped it up. "This is the mayor." He paused, all smiles. "Yep, bring it right in!"

Roderich and Arthur exchanged glances as moments later, the secretary slipped into the office, carrying a paper bag in her hands with what appeared to be the symbol of the local fast food chain upon the white outer surface. The lawyer and the policeman then switched their gazes back to the mayor, who was rubbing his hands together eagerly with bright eyes, intent on the package his secretary held.

"Gimme." He took the bag from her as soon as she was within range and grinned once more. "Thanks, that'll be all," he said to the secretary as he plunged his hand into the bag, rooting around for a moment like a pig searching for truffles before he pulled an enormous hamburger from the depths. Roderich had not seen him look happier at any point in the meeting than the look of ecstasy he witnessed as Alfred sunk his teeth into the burger with a satisfied, "Mmmmmmm."

Roderich and Arthur swapped looks of mingled disbelief and disgust.

"Er...Alfred...would you like us to...?" the Chief of Police began, his eyes fixed on Mayor Jones as the man bit again and again into the steaming fast food creation.

"Whuh? Oh..." Jones chewed and swallowed, then beamed at them, clearly in a much better mood thanks to his hamburger. He took a slurp of a soft drink that he pulled from the bag (the contents of which seemed to be bottomless) before speaking again. "Yeah, uh. Yeah. That'll be all...and stuff. But hey, Edelstein..." Slurp, chomp chomp. "You should go talk to Beilschmidt. I can order you to or something, if it makes you feel better about it...I'm the mayor, I can do that, right?"

Roderich resisted the urge to facepalm. Alfred Jones was a fairly good mayor overall, but he could certainly be silly at times. "No need to order me, sir," he responded evenly. "I'll go of my own accord, if that's what you'd like me to do."

"Yeah, I do! Let's get inside his head, okay? That way we can beat him!" Jones flashed him one of his signature thumbs-ups and goofy smiles before making a shooing motion with the same hand. "Now, I've got a burger to enjoy, so you two go out there and be amazing! I know you'll make me proud!" And with that, his attention was more on his food than on either Roderich or Arthur.

"...I suppose we should leave, then," Roderich muttered.

"I suppose you're right," Kirkland agreed, casting him a sideways glance. They both stood from their chairs and left the mayor to chomp and slurp in peace.

"...so," Kirkland spoke up as the door to the mayor's office swung shut. "Are you really going to..."

"I'll do what is necessary," Roderich replied, nodding to the Chief of Police. "I will see you some other time, then, Chief Kirkland?"

The British policeman scowled just slightly at the quick dismissal, clearly unaccustomed to being treated in such a fashion. "Right," he responded gruffly, shaking his head slightly and rolling his eyes before he went off in the other direction, leaving Roderich to descend the stairs and exit City Hall alone. As the door swung closed behind him, he sighed heavily, clutching his temples.

Going to see Beilschmidt was the last thing he wanted to do, but he supposed he had little choice in the matter.

* * *

**(A/N: And I just lost fifty potential readers for killing off Canada, Liechtenstein, and Ukraine. |D  
If you're still reading, the next chapter should be up in the next few days, and that's where the fun will really begin.)**


	3. Chapter 3

**(A/N: Right on, third chapter. This one is a little shorter than the last, and it was sort of...awkward for me to end, because I felt like it leaves something to be desired, but I'll make up for it in the awesome first scene you're hopefully about to read.**

**As for reviews, I've been trying to respond to most of them, and I want to say that I really appreciate all the kind feedback. It's very supportive to know people are actually reading this stuff. Heh.**

**I also have some ideas for art for this story, so be looking for that in the next few chapters. Zelda out.)**

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"Oh, good afternoon, Mr. District Attorney. What can I do ya for?" Roderich was greeted at the county jail by an outspoken, spiky-haired young man whom he vaguely remembered was named Mathias. The man was twirling a ring with a small axe keychain on it around his index finger with his feet on his desk, rather like the mayor had been, and there was an open beer sitting dangerously close to a manila folder nearby.

"I've come to speak with Gilbert Beilschmidt." Roderich pursed his lips after speaking, looking steadily at the officer.

"...uh..." The man seemed fairly puzzled, putting his feet down and rifling through some of the papers on his desk. "I dunno if I'm allowed to let you do that."

"Officer, I'm the District Attorney, and I have authorization from the mayor. Please let me through," Roderich said composedly, pushing his glasses up his nose.

"...alright, fine, but it's my ass on the line," the man grumbled, taking a swig of his beer. "He's the last cell on the left."

"Thank you." Roderich walked past the desk at a regulated gait, trying to keep it neither too fast nor too slow. He was neither eager nor completely repulsed by the idea of the visit, and he tried to show it in his step, though there were few occupants of the county jail to show it to. Those that saw him gazed out disinterestedly from behind bars, mostly petty criminals being held for a week, a night, a handful of days...but every so often, Roderich spotted the animalistic gleam of a true criminal in the midst, a predator being held before trial or waiting for transfer to the larger prison just outside Velt City's limits. This brand of criminal was few and far between in County, but not unseen, and that voracious glint was the same thing he expected to see in Beilschmidt's eyes.

However, as he approached the last cell on the left, he realized (with some contempt) that he would be unable to see such a glint in Beilschmidt's eyes, as they were not open.

The albino was sprawled out on the frugal, gray-sheeted cot, lying on his back with his limbs akimbo and his spiky silver-white hair slightly messy with sleep. He was still wearing the clothes he'd worn at the arraignment that morning, save that his blazer was unbuttoned, and he'd taken off his shoes. Had he been some other man, Roderich would have thought him the picture of innocence, but knowing his identity, he couldn't allow himself to draw such conclusions. Instead, he straightened his glasses, clapped his hands together loudly twice in succession, and watched as the other man jolted awake, his crimson eyes drawing open as he stirred and sat up slowly. A hand went to his hair, scratching his head and mussing those oddly pale locks before his gaze drifted to Roderich...and a slow, almost devilish smile spread across his face.

"Oh, lookie here, it seems I really am awesome enough to deserve a visit from the District Attorney," Beilschmidt practically purred. Roderich stiffened slightly where he stood, feeling his chin jerk a centimeter upwards in some automatic sign of defiance. He immediately hated the way that Beilschmidt spoke to him.

"Hey, it's a good thing you're here. I need to make a phone call. My bird's all alone at home and I need to call up my friend, tell him he needs fed." The red-eyed man leaned backwards against the farthest wall of the cell, still seated upon the cot. "But these jerk-offs won't listen to me. Think you could do me that favor?"

Roderich felt resentment shoot into every fiber of his being, but he kept himself carefully composed, refusing to show the scowl that threatened to overtake his expression. "Listen, Mr. Beilschmidt," he began slowly, clasping his hands together behind his back to keep them from balling into fists, "I did not come here to speak to you about making sure your bird is fed. I can honestly say that I do not care."

"That's cold." Beilschmidt pouted at him in a mocking way.

"On request of the mayor, I came to...speak...with you." Roderich found the words hard to choke out, as he knew that it would only inflate Beilschmidt's ego to know he'd come here exclusively to speak with him. And it seemed to – the albino sat up a little straighter, his eyes flashing with self-importance.

"The _mayor _asked _you _to come speak with _me?" _His expression was somewhere between delighted and incredulous, and he stared at Roderich for a moment longer before he burst into loud peals of laughter. "Ahahahahaha! Oh, _mein Gott, _that is _priceless!"_

Had it been another day, and had Beilschmidt not been laughing at _him, _Roderich would have been curious as to where exactly the albino had learned that snippet of German he apparently knew and why he was so apt to use it; there were many ethnicities gathered in Velt City, and many different languages spoken. However, he was too busy being angry with Beilschmidt's contemptible reaction that he didn't even think to ask.

"Are you quite finished?" Roderich asked frostily after a moment, doing everything in his power not to glare at the individual on the other side of the bars.

"W-wait, one sec...bahahaha! Ohoho, that's a good one! And you must be _so miserable, _too! Look at you, all posh and prissy, and here you are at the county jail, running around on command like the mayor's little lapdog to come see _me! _I mean, I'm awesome and all, but I'm totally the last person you want to see, am I right?" Still snickering, Beilschmidt rose from the cot and crossed the concrete floor, his stockinged feet making quiet scuffing sounds as he walked. He grabbed the iron grid at the front of the cell and leaned against it, pressing his face into the space between two bars and leering through them with that grin plastered unfailingly on his pallid face. He was suddenly so close that Roderich took a step back; he was uncomfortable being too near to anyone for any period of time, let alone dangerous criminals like Gilbert Beilschmidt. It took him a moment to realize that Beilschmidt might take this as a sign that he was intimidating him and mentally slapped himself, but made up for it with the look in his eyes as he locked gazes with the accused murderer.

"I'm not here to talk about that," Roderich responded, fighting to keep his tone as even as possible. "I'm here to speak with you about why you murdered three innocent people."

"Ohhh, so _that's _why the mayor sent his little Papillion to speak with me." Beilschmidt smirked.

Roderich was instantly flustered, and it was difficult not to show it as he adjusted his glasses, a slight flush on his cheeks. "P-Papillion?" he asked huffily, his eyes widening a fraction in indignation.

"Yeah, you remind me of one," the young man drawled, sneering at him through the bars with a Cheshire Cat's grin. "Fragile, prissy, obedient, and..." Here Beilschmidt's arm snaked out from between the bars, nearly touching Roderich's face before the District Attorney jerked backwards, his flush deepening a shade. "...adorable." The albino licked one of his lips almost derisively in a way Roderich found most vulgar, that hand daring to reach out just a bit farther, the fingertips so close to Roderich's cheek...

And then, in one fluid motion, the brunette grabbed the invasive wrist and forced his arm back through the bars, bringing Roderich face-to-face with his defendant.

"Please pay attention to me for a moment, Mr. Beilschmidt, as I won't be repeating myself," Roderich hissed. He feeling his brow furrow with exasperation as he stared into the ruby depths of Beilschmidt's eyes. "Do not try to 'rattle my cage,' because from this moment forward, it is not going to work. I am not here to be your friend, but I will not hesitate if you attempt to make me your enemy. And do trust me; I am not a pleasant enemy to have." He noticed that grin fade just a bit with a note of satisfaction. "You have two options as of now. You can speak to me, and we can make this encounter as painless as possible. Or you can continue to be an irksome, moronic blockhead, and I can leave you here to be transferred to prison where you can taunt the rapists and the sexual predators and the serial killers all you'd like. Please choose one of these two options now. I'm taking my girlfriend out to dinner in..." Roderich broke eye contact only for an instant to check the Rolex on his wrist. "...an hour and a half, so I really don't have all day to wait for your response."

Beilschmidt was almost scowling now, and Roderich felt a pleased smile toy with the corners of his mouth, the sight of which only deepened the other man's sullen expression. The brunette was about to start rejoicing when the smirk returned – albeit slowly – and Beilschmidt's eyes reacquired their predatory gleam.

"Two options, huh? Who do you think I am, some kind of common criminal?" he spat.

"That is exactly what I think you are," Roderich responded.

"Well, get this through your head," Beilschmidt growled. "I'm not guilty. You're not going to convict me for this. I'm going to get out of here, and when I do, you'll regret ever trying to terrorize me."

"Is that a threat?" Roderich asked coolly.

"And what if it is?" the other hissed.

"I'm not one to succumb to idle threats."

"I'm not one to rot in a jail cell because some prissy aristocrat of a District Attorney wants me to."

Roderich's eyes narrowed. "I would watch your mouth."

"You smell too nice for a man," Beilschmidt snarled rebelliously.

"You're not terribly acquainted with the concept of 'tact,' are you, Mr. Beilschmidt?"

"Tact is for people who are too stupid to be sarcastic," the other shot back with a glower. "Let go of me." It had escaped Roderich's attention for the past minute or so that he was still holding onto that adventurous wrist, and all at once, he realized how close he was to the other man. He was so close that he could feel Beilschmidt's hot, angry breath on his face, see the subtle movement of his eyelids, the gentle flare of his nostrils...

His reaction was rapid – he shot backwards, releasing the wrist and placing at least a foot of distance between himself and Beilschmidt in less than a second. The accused murderer grasped the bars with both hands and glared at him, but a slow smile was forming beneath the gleaming garnets of his eyes.

"Touchy," was all he said, raising his eyebrows spitefully as he played the word over his tongue, emphasizing the difference in syllables. Roderich felt the ghost of a frown flit across his face.

"I'm going to be late," Roderich muttered, his gaze no longer on Beilschmidt, but rather travelling everywhere else it could. He seemed to be taking a considerable amount of interest in his shoes.

"You've hardly been here twenty minutes, O Great and Glorious District Attorney," the albino drawled, sliding one arm out through a gap in the grid to grasp the bar from the outside. "Could it be that I really have rattled your cage?"

"Don't jump to such conclusions," Roderich retorted, a bit too quickly. "You are in no position to be offending me, you realize that."

"I didn't kill those people," Beilschmidt responded with a self-satisfied smirk. "What's wrong, little Papillion? You intimidated by a bigger dog than you?"

"_Don't..._call me that," Roderich responded, fighting to keep his tone even. His gaze switched back to Beilschmidt, eyes as cold and hard as sapphires. "I'll be taking my leave now, and I'll return when you wish to cooperate." With one last glare at the leering silver-haired man in the jail cell, Roderich turned on his heel and (almost) stormed all the way back down the aisle. He tried to shut out the sound of Gilbert Beilschmidt's voice as it rang out behind him, but he was unable, and that taunting, teasing, utterly grating voice reached his ears unhampered.

"Tell your girl hello for me, won't you, Papillion?"

* * *

It seemed like longer than an hour when Roderich found himself seated across from Elizaveta, finding her grass green eyes an extremely pleasant contrast to the red he had been staring into previously. It was as if that gaze had seared itself into his brain – it was all he could see when he closed his eyes, that maddening leer, that infuriating grin...

"Roderich? Hey, Roderich!" Elizaveta clapped her hands sharply in front of his face, which not only served to rouse him from his daydream but also reminded him of his using the same tactic to wake Beilschmidt. He felt a shiver run down his spine and grimaced slightly.

"...you okay?" His girlfriend was watching him over her veal marsala with an expression of concern. "You seem out of it tonight."

"...yes, I'm...perfectly fine. Why would I be otherwise?" he asked, pushing up his glasses.

"Because ever since we got here, you've been acting like you're half-asleep." Her lips formed into a sympathetic smile. "Rough day at work? You didn't seem too happy after the arraignment this morning."

Roderich found it hard to believe that the arraignment had occurred in the same day as everything else that had happened in the past few hours, and he rubbed his temples slightly, trying to thwart an impending headache. It didn't work. "One could say that," he responded, pausing in his ineffective massage to take a bite of his pasta. He'd taken Elizaveta to the best Italian restaurant in town, hoping that the atmosphere and the delicious food would clear his mind, but it had only filled his head with more foggy thoughts. He felt slightly dizzy.

"Why don't you tell me about it?" Elizaveta prompted. She had let her hair down since that morning, but she wore the same professional-looking clothes: a blouse and slacks, rather than a skirt or a dress. Some of his coworkers around the office joked that Elizaveta Héderváry was more masculine than her boyfriend was, and though Roderich wouldn't say it aloud, sometimes he felt as if that were true. It did nothing for his self-esteem.

"...well, the mayor had called me earlier in the day, so I returned his call, and he asked me to come down to his office to discuss the case against Gilbert Beilschmidt. I went for lunch at Tino's prior to that meeting, had an unsavory run-in with Francis Bonnefoy—"

"Did he try to flirt with you again?" Elizaveta cut in, looking almost...excited at the prospect.

"Ah..." Roderich tugged at his collar, feeling a slight flush creep into his cheeks. "No, he didn't, but he was certainly grating on my nerves..."

"Oh." Elizaveta's attention returned to her food.

"After that, I went to the mayor's office, and we discussed the case..." He was tempted to add that the Chief of Police called him a nancy, but he decided not to include that, as he was still getting over his own offense at the comment. "...and then the mayor asked me to visit Beilschmidt..."

"Did you?" she asked, watching him.

"...yes. I did," he responded in a lackluster tone, poking idly at his pasta.

"And?" she prompted.

"It was...unsettling."

"Describe unsettling."

"...I..." It might have had its roots in his upbringing, his mental health, or perhaps just his personality, but Roderich Edelstein found that expressing his emotions in words or gestures was one of the most difficult and arduous tasks that life had ever presented him. It was already strenuous for him to even smile, let alone actually vocalize the feelings and sensations that stirred in his head, and it was something that no-one he had ever met could seem to comprehend. Though it had become easier to open up to someone like Elizaveta, there was a certain...degree, a certain part of him that he could not express in words. And that was when he found himself drumming patterns on the table again.

"...Elizaveta..." he began, looking up at her slowly. "...I...I need the keys to the music room."

She stiffened.

He felt his toes curl in his shoes. "Please..."

It took her a moment before she spoke, and when she did, it was in her low, menacing sort of voice. "Roderich, I've already told you that I will _not _be second to that _instrument _when it comes to who you talk to about your _feelings..." _

"Please," he muttered, his eyes slightly beseeching. "I haven't played in nearly two weeks."

She stared back at him, her own eyes hard chips of jade, until finally she made a noise of irritation. "You really had to bring this up at dinner, didn't you? And we were having such a nice time." Her tone was affronted, bordering on exasperated. "Fine. I'll give you half an hour when we get home, and that's it."

He felt his shoulders slump in relief, exhaling the breath he had been holding. "...thank you," he mumbled, his head sinking a fraction as if bowing his head to her.

"You shouldn't be thanking me for this," she replied, clearly aggravated. "Roderich, this isn't good for you. You know I only have your well-being in mind, and this...this isn't healthy."

"I know," he muttered. He looked like a child being scolded, and he felt like one, as well.

"You know I don't mind when you play just to play, especially for me, but this...this whole thing about expressing yourself, you should be able to do that _without _having to use an instrument."

"I know," he whispered again.

"...hmph." She stared at him a moment longer, then let out a long, drawn-out sigh. "Fine. Now, can we please get back to our dinner?"

"Of course," he responded bleakly, and forced another forkful of pasta into his mouth.

* * *

They were home by seven that evening.

It was nearly half past seven by the time Elizaveta forked over those precious keys to Roderich, and he spent another two minutes just staring at them, feeling delight start to well up from within him. Here was the opportunity to express himself wholly, without having to worry about what others would think of what he said or what he did – no, it would just be him and the music, all alone, together. It was an experience that he relived anew every single time, as his encounters had become so few and far between.

Trying to withhold his excitement, he inserted the key into the lock on the music room door at 7:35 PM, slipping it into his pocket when he heard the lock click open. He knew she would only give him thirty minutes to be alone...maybe even less if she became too irritated. But this was something that could not be rushed, and as he laid a hand reverently on the glossy black surface of the grand piano, he felt as if his day had officially been made.

He slid up the cover on the keys and sat down at the bench, fingers skimming across the ivory bars, allowing his eyes to close as he inhaled the slightly woody smell of the old piano. As he exhaled, his hands began to play, as if of their own accord.

And then, he launched himself into Chopin's "Fantasie" Impromptu, Op. 66.

It was as if he'd had a rock on his chest, and only now was it being lifted; the music streamed from his fingers, feverishly swift and then reflectively slow and back again, his eyes fluttering closed at some points and flashing open at others, his hands in constant motion. His body rocked slowly forward and back with the movements of his arms as he spilled his feelings to the piano, his frustrations and his sorrow and his indignation. All of this emanated from the sound of the music, and as he plunged into another piece by Chopin (that was just his mood today) – Polonaise for Piano No. 3 Op. 40-1 – he felt release wash over him. No human being had ever understood him in the same way his piano did.

Just as he was finishing the first movement of Tchaikovsky's Piano Concerto No. 1, he heard a loud knock upon the door, partially jarring him from his musical trance.

"Roderich, time's up."

"...I'll be right out," he called, but it was another minute before he could so much as stand from the piano, and yet another two before he could force himself to leave.

He dropped the keys to the music room into Elizaveta's hand dejectedly as he passed her on his way out, and decided he'd go to bed early that night.

* * *

"_Roderich."_

_The ten-year-old pursed his lips._

"_Roderich!" A hand flew through the air and came to a screeching halt right before his face, just as Roderich screwed his little eyes shut to take the blow. When it didn't come, he allowed his eyelids to draw back slowly, squinting up at his mother, her hand still poised and ready to smack him. _

"_Look at me when I'm talking to you," she ordered. "And stand up straight."_

_He did so._

_She shoved the paper in front of his face. "What is this, Roderich?"_

"_It's a test, Mother."_

"_No, Roderich. This paper is not a test. This paper is a failure. A FAILURE, do you understand?"_

"_Yes, Mother." The little Edelstein boy was only ten, and already he could keep that level expression, not showing a hint of anger or distress, only respectful attention._

"_How dare you get a B minus on a test! How is it you expect to get into law school if you have grades like this, Roderich?"_

"_I'll try harder next time."_

"_That's what you said the last time, isn't it?"_

"_It won't happen again."_

"_It sure as hell better not!" His mother forced the paper into his little arms. "Now, you go over this test and you fix all your answers. But first, go practice your piano. I want to hear that concerto play smoothly."_

"_Yes, Mother," he repeated, taking the test in his delicate hands. "I'll do what you ask." And then he slipped away quietly into the music room of the grand old mansion the Edelstein family inhabited, closed the door softly, hopped up onto the piano bench, and pulled the cover off of the keys. He set the test beside him, a silent audience, as he ran his fingers over the keys like he always did; force of habit. Roderich loved the feeling of those keys, the worn-in smoothness of the old instrument._

_His mother thought it was a punishment to make him play the piano when all the other little boys were off playing in the dirt. Roderich saw it as a reward._

He jolted awake in bed at 3:01 AM, just before he began to play, and his fingers ached with longing.

**(A/N: For the curious, this is what Roderich was playing on the piano.**

**Chopin "Fantasie" Impromptu Op. 66: [YOUTUBE].com/watch?v=tvm2ZsRv3C8  
Chopin Polonaise for Piano No. 3 Op. 40-1: [YOUTUBE].com/watch?v=GI3QVVUbrk0  
Tchaikovsky Piano Concerto No. 1 mvt. 1: [YOUTUBE].com/watch?v=7fMfa6ZVo08&feature=related (Just the piano parts, obviously)**

**I know Lizzy seems kind of villainous in the chapter, but she really has Roddy's best interests at heart - she just doesn't really understand him. And look! A flashback to Roderich's past!**

**See you guys in the next chapter. Happy reading!)**


	4. Chapter 4

**(A/N: Sorry it took a bit longer than in the past, but here is the fourth chapter. Things are really starting to move here.**

**I don't really have much to say, but soon enough I get to start naming some of my inspiration songs as the chapters they apply to roll around!**

**This chapter does hold inferences of Switzerland/Austria, which is actually a pairing I like (not as much as Prussia/Austria), so if you like it, enjoy, and if you don't, please do try to bear with it, there is more to the chapter than that. c: **

**Enjoy!)**

* * *

It had initially seemed like a good idea to Roderich to speak with Vash Zwingli, but tracking him down at the man's personal shooting range really hadn't been what he'd had in mind.

It was the type with the booths and the earmuffs and the eerily human-shaped targets that looked like the ones used for police training; how Vash had gained authorization to build such a place on private property, Roderich could only guess, but the blonde-haired arms dealer was going at it like a pro when he stepped inside.

Without looking up at him, Vash muttered, "Cover your ears."

Roderich obeyed, wincing slightly as the man put six bullets from his handgun into the cutout at the far end of the booth. Violence had never been something he enjoyed; growing up, Vash had always been the one with the taste for it, not him. Not to say that Zwingli picked fights – he was just very, very proficient at protecting himself - and everything that belonged to him - using any means necessary. Though everyone knew Vash sold arms to both sides of the law (he was the most reliable dealer of weapons to both the police department and the mob), no-one had ever bothered to pursue a case against him, particularly since everyone also knew that Vash Zwingli was a childhood friend of the District Attorney.

After Vash spilled another round into the hapless target, he slid the great earmuffs down around his neck and pushed up his protective goggles into his bobbed blonde hair. "What do you want?" he asked, jerking his chin upwards at Roderich so as to look down his nose at the brunette. Roderich felt his stomach sink slightly. He and Vash had been on such…good terms, once upon a time.

"_This is the last time I'm saving you from an ass-kicking, Edelstein, I mean it," Vash huffed, readjusting his grip on Roderich's legs as he piggybacked the beaten boy to safety, his passenger clinging weakly to his neck. Roderich smiled, inhaling the slightly minty scent of Vash's hair as he leaned his head against his shoulder._

"_You said that last time."_

"_I mean it this time," grumbled the blonde. "You think I'm joking? I WILL ditch you."_

_Roderich sighed, falling silent._

"_So what the hell did you do to get yourself beaten up this time, huh, y'idiot?" The bespectacled boy along for the ride smiled weakly to himself; Vash had an odd way of showing he cared, but that didn't change the fact that he did. Roderich knew he did. And he cared for Vash, too – very, very much._

"_I didn't do anything wrong," the other responded, tightening his grip so as not to fall off. "They jumped me after school." He paused, thoughtful. "…oh, no, wait, I did refuse to let Brian cheat off of my test in Science today, I suppose he may have been sore about that."_

"_You need to learn some self-defense skills," Vash scolded him gruffly. "I won't always be here to protect you."_

_Roderich smiled to himself. "I know."_

A lot of time had passed since then – sometimes Roderich missed their friendship, but he knew Vash had grown sick of him by now. He wasn't up to the arms dealer's high standards, his required level of physical strength…though, Roderich mused to himself, Vash underestimated his emotional power a great deal. Still, Roderich couldn't deny that he wasn't a physical being; his slender figure testified to that.

"I'd like to speak with you, Vash," Roderich responded to the earlier demand of a question, pushing up his glasses.

The blonde narrowed his eyes. "Depends on what you want to speak to me about."

"The evening your sister went missing?"

"Fuck you," Vash grunted, turning back to the booth. Roderich barely had the time to cover his ears before another four shots were unloaded into the target.

"…Vash, I ask for your cooperation on this. I'm prosecuting the main suspect in this case, and if your testimony is of any value to me—"

"Right, because that's all you care about, isn't it? Your _case." _Vash fired another shot at the cutout. Roderich could tell from where he stood that the blonde dealer's aim was exceptional.

"_Right, because that's all you care about, your stupid sense of personal justice." Young Vash rolled his eyes, once again repositioning Roderich on his back. "It's going to get you killed someday. You should have just let him cheat."_

"_But that would be unfair to the other students."_

"_Screw that. Look what he did to you!"_

_Roderich looked away._

"Vash, this is no time to be sensitive…" the District Attorney said quietly.

"Don't _you _call _me_ sensitive, you pansy!" Vash hissed, stalking forward a few steps; he didn't put the gun down, but Roderich was unruffled, staring back into his angry bottle green eyes with his own even-tempered indigo. "Listen to me. I know _your _life is all sunshine and rainbows, but I just lost my little sister. You get it? She's fucking _dead." _Vash practically spat the last word, as if saying it harshly would make it less true. "Lili was the most important thing to me in the world, and you expect me to just fucking _talk about it with you _like this is some goddamn _therapy session? _My parents sent me to enough shrinks as a kid, Roderich, I sure as _hell _know how to play up a story."

Roderich hid a smile at the memory.

"_So, can you…?"_

"_Stop right there. You're about to make me feel bad because I have to turn down another one of your stupid playdates. I have a date with a new shrink today," Vash cut in, his tone portraying just how bitterly annoyed he was._

"…_I thought you were seeing the one…"_

"_I broke her window. They kicked me out of the office."_

"_Oh." Roderich buried his face into Vash's shoulder to keep himself from chuckling. He knew he shouldn't find Vash's anger issues to be amusing, but sometimes the things he did were just…funny._

"_I know you want to laugh," Vash said with a scowl in his voice. "I do not have anger management problems. I mean it."_

_Roderich laughed softly._

"_What?"_

"_You're cute when you're angry."_

"_...you little bastard."_

That had been so long ago, before Roderich had put up walls to contain himself, before he had placed that pane of glass between himself and the outside world – that "aristocratic distance" that kept him together and apart. The world seemed so...fragile, viewed from behind that translucent barrier, and standing on the other side of that divider, Roderich found that everything was pleasantly clear and concise. He didn't have to become too involved or too attached to anything. He was safe.

Perhaps that was why he was so unaffected by Vash's fit of rage. It wasn't just that he was adjusted to it (and, in addition, understood that he was at his most volatile, what with the death of his sister), it was that he could not empathize. He couldn't feel that emotion the same way, and he didn't have to. Roderich was a bystander on the other side of his window, watching everything, but never comprehending it on a tangible level.

"I'm not a therapist," he responded coolly. "I know this is a difficult time for you, Vash, but I am making an honest attempt to bring the man responsible for Lili's death to justice. In order to do that, I—"

"Yes, you need my testimony." Vash scowled again, staring defiantly at Roderich. "I know that."

"Then help me." Roderich's expression was utterly serious.

"You're not one to beg."

"I'm not begging."

"Maybe you should be."

"Vash, do not make this difficult."

"Don't make it difficult? Why the hell _shouldn't _I?" Vash snarled, leaning forward ominously, the gun still in his hand. "Listen to me, you useless little rich boy. Either give me leverage or get off of my property."

"You claim to be a pacifist, and yet you sell weapons," Roderich mused humorlessly.

"What does that have to do with this?"

"Well, you do seem a man of contradiction, Mr. Zwingli," the attorney said slowly, as if every word was timed. "Similarly, you claim to have loved your sister, and yet you refuse to give your testimony to the one prosecuting the man who murdered her—"

"_OF ALL THE INSOLENT LITTLE BASTARDS!" _Vash screamed, throwing the gun off to the side so hard that it shattered the window looking into the hall. Roderich did not flinch – not at the screaming or the breaking glass, not at the angry blonde man with eyes blazing emerald, not at the fury in Vash's step as he advanced on Roderich, driving the brunette towards the door. No, Roderich saw everything from behind his wall of glass, but he did not react. His composure was something that was carefully constructed, layer upon layer upon layer of emotional control, locks and chains and closed doors and many, many walls. It took more than an angry arms dealer and a broken window to shake his foundations.

"You come in here, _onto my property, _and you fucking _SAY I DON'T LOVE LILI LIKE THE EGOTISTICAL BASTARD YOU ARE—"_

"I never said you did not love her, I merely suggested—"

"THEN YOU INFERRED IT!" the pale-haired man shrieked, shoving Roderich against the closed metal door. He was so close that Roderich could see his eyes flash and his nostrils flare; it was easy to see such details when you detached yourself from the situation. "IF YOU THINK THIS IS ANY WAY, _ANY WAY, _TO GO ABOUT GETTING MY TESTIMONY, THEN YOU MIGHT AS WELL _GO HOME!"_

"Are you going to shoot me, Vash?" Roderich asked, raising his eyebrows a fraction.

"Would you like to find out?" Vash snarled in a dangerously low tone.

"That's not what I am here for."

"You're not getting what you came for. Go home before I escort you out _myself." _Vash practically spat the words at him like foul language.

"...leverage is what I need, hm?"

Vash glared at him.

Roderich straightened slightly where he stood; there was a hand on either side of him, but he ignored the instinctive feelings of a trapped animal and stared Vash down with an even blue-violet gaze. "Leverage could come in the form of a warrant for your arrest, should you decide not to cooperate...obstruction of justice, to begin with, and I am certain it would be none too difficult to dig up evidence about your more 'under the table' arms dealing..."

"Are...you...threatening me?" Vash hissed.

"I am simply bringing into the light what _could_ occur, should you refuse to aid me. It by no means needs to happen." Roderich knew he was thought of by a great deal of people as nothing more than a pretty face and a full wallet, but this – this straight-backed, stony-faced man was what he _could _be, the Roderich Edelstein who didn't back down, the Roderich Edelstein who did what was necessary for justice, the Roderich Edelstein whom Velt City had elected as its District Attorney.

When he put his civilities aside, he was capable of intimidation.

"...get out."

"You're refusing to cooperate with me, then?"

"I SAID _GET OUT!" _Vash shrieked.

"I'll be back in two days for your testimony," Roderich responded, and without staying to hear Vash's reply, he swung open the large metal door and closed it behind him. He heard gunshots ring out behind him, but continued to walk...though he was fairly certain that Vash had been firing at the door he had just gone through.

He managed to get to the front door before he sank against the wall, breathing heavily and fighting to recollect himself.

* * *

Perhaps it was habit, perhaps it was some retained sense of workaholism, but Roderich felt the only place he could go after an experience like that was back to work.

The DA's Office was just as bustling as usual when he returned, and he found that as he stepped into that workplace named after his position, his sense of self-control crept pleasantly back into his being. He was top dog here. Unshakeable, irrefutable, in control. Something about that knowledge gave him a sense of inner peace that washed away the shock of his encounter with Vash Zwingli.

He was passing by the office of Eduard Von Bock when an unusual conversation unintentionally caught his ears, and he found that he was unable to turn away once it reached him.

"Please, do not hurt Raivis," the voice was saying – it sounded very much like Eduard himself, and Roderich found himself pausing, leaning in towards the door.

"I wouldn't have to," a heavily-accented voice replied, "if you would do what I told you…the first time I told you to. That seems fairly simple, da?"

"…you don't control me anymore," the blonde's shaky voice responded. Roderich leaned against the door frame, trying to subtly crane his head so he could see in the small glass window set high in the door. "You cannot make me do anything."

"Ah, but I can be very convincing," responded the bodiless voice in a high-pitched Russian accent. "Haven't you already learned by now? I always get what I want." The tone was eerily cheerful, and Roderich felt himself wincing despite.

Was Eduard…had Eduard been working for Braginski? Eduard Von Bock, one of the most devoted and intelligent attorneys he knew? Was there a leak in the DA's Office?

No…no, he couldn't be so quick to jump to conclusions. If Eduard was in some sort of trouble, he would have told someone, or else found his own way to weasel himself out – the man was very smart, Roderich knew, and capable. And surely, if he thought he or the DA's Office was in any danger, he would have come to Roderich…?

"I will not help you. Not this time."

"We'll see what little Raivis has to say, da? Or maybe your young friend Toris Lorinaitis…he worked so hard to get free of me, isn't that a shame? Now he's just the assistant for that cute Polish fashion designer…he could have gone so much farther in my business, too." There was a smile in that voice, and Roderich could practically see Braginski's uncannily content face looming at Eduard from the shadows. It took every ounce of him not to burst in and save the poor man…but this was not his business, he couldn't just—

"Mr. District Attorney?"

"Yes!" Roderich started, whipping around with wide, incriminating eyes, like a young child caught eavesdropping on his older sister. Behind him stood his secretary, Helena, who was watching him with an unreadable, albeit slightly puzzled, expression on her pretty face.

"I'm glad you're back. There's a call for you."

"O-oh?" Roderich cursed the stutter in his voice, turning to face her fully and straightening his tie self-consciously. "Where from?"

"The county jail."

Roderich swallowed.

"Very well," he muttered darkly, and followed Helena back to his own office, away from the ominous door at which he had been listening.

He entered his office without a word and closed the door softly behind him, crossing the floor to his desk and sweeping up the receiver in one smooth motion. "Roderich Edelstein speaking."

"Roddy! You actually picked up, imagine that!"

Roderich was silent for a long moment as he forced down a swell of irritation. The voice on the other end of the phone was unmistakable – the grating voice of Gilbert Beilschmidt.

"You are there, aren't you? You'd better not hang up. I'm way too awesome to be hung up on."

"I'm here," Roderich managed, his voice low and bitter, portraying some of his annoyance no matter how hard he tried.

"Fan-tastic. So listen, they let me make a phone call or two. My buddy Antonio's going to take care of my bird, and Francis is bringing me my Diary of the Awesome Me – because, you know, I record every day of my amazing life in that diary, and now I'm at least three days behind. I've been forced to write in Sharpie on my bedsheets, how undignified is that?"

"And how did you manage to delude yourself into believing I would care about this?" Roderich returned, each one of his words laced with mild acrimony.

"Well, seeing as you're trying to get into my head, I thought you might wanna pay me a visit – if you do, I might let you read an entry or two from my diary. I'll even let you pick which one. But only if...ya know. You play nice."

"Play nice." The brunette's tone was utterly flat.

"Yeah. I deserve a little respect, you know."

"...do you."

"Mhm."

"We shall see."

Roderich slammed down the receiver in a fit of impulse.

* * *

He wasn't sure what drove him to actually go down to the county jail, what flight of fancy actually compelled him to stand in the presence of Gilbert Beilschmidt once more, but something did, and it was half an hour later that the unfortunate District Attorney found himself pulling up his blue BMW in to the parking lot.

Past the spiky-haired guard he went again, the man offering him a wave and a gesture with a mostly-empty beer bottle as Roderich passed, his own arms held stiffly at his sides. "We moved Beilschmidt to Interrogation Room 2 when we heard you were coming, Mr. District Attorney," the young cop spoke up, grinning at him. "He had a visitor earlier. I dunno if he's gone yet. Spanish or something, brown hair, green eyes, nice accent."

"Noted. Thank you." Roderich offered him a slight dip of the head and walked past the desk, keeping his steps as regulated and in-time as the steady beating of his heart in his chest. He carried an air of invincibility as he walked, and that was exactly the level of effortless assurance and poise he wanted to radiate. Even when there was no audience, Roderich's front usually helped _him _more than it helped anyone else.

As he swung open the door to Interrogation Room 2, he was met with a tanned face and an easygoing smile, coupled with a pair of bright green eyes. Roderich started slightly—the face was slightly familiar, the locks of chocolate hair and that happy-go-lucky aura the exotic brunette seemed to radiate. There was an easy confidence about him; in fact, one could say that everything about the man seemed natural, laid-back, and untroubled. Roderich immediately assumed this person was the friend Gilbert had spoken of in passing once or twice and was immediately suspicious, though his skepticism hardly showed through into his expression - one of slight surprise.

"Oh, _lo siento, hombre, _I was just leaving." The man's voice was pleasantly thick with a Spanish accent.

"You would be Antonio, then," Roderich stated, almost an inquiry, but with not quite enough inflection to be one.

"Heh, _sí, _I'm Antonio. Antonio Fernandez Carriedo. _Mucho gusto, Señor." _

"Roderich Edelstein. District Attorney." Out of common courtesy, Roderich offered one gloved hand to the Spaniard, who looked at it hesitantly before shaking.

"Ahh, yeah, I voted for you." Another nonchalant grin. "You've come to speak with Gil, then, I'm guessing?"

"Yes."

"...I suppose my input wouldn't be of much use to you, would it?" Carriedo said sheepishly, scratching the back of his neck.

"If you have a statement to make in Mr. Beilschmidt's favor, I would suggest speaking with his attorney, not with me," Roderich responded. "If you would excuse me." He stepped back to allow Carriedo passage into the hallway, and, with a nervous glance at Roderich, the green-eyed man followed the hints he was given and stepped completely out of the doorway. With a brisk nod of his head, Roderich stepped through the door without a glance over his shoulder at the Spaniard whose footsteps he heard receding down the hall.

"You know, I could quote that Batman movie right about now. There's no crazy in latex coming out of the shadows to slam my head into the table, is there? I'm too awesome for that sort of treatment." Beilschmidt was leaning back so his chair went up on its rear legs, his shoulders resting against the wall behind him and his feet on the table. It was a precarious position, but the albino seemed not to care, as his expression was almost serene.

Roderich chose not to respond to that statement, instead pulling out the chair across from Beilschmidt and seating himself almost silently. He folded his hands and set them on the tabletop, watching Beilschmidt with attentive indigo eyes, studying him. "Please cease with the silliness, Mr. Beilschmidt, you did summon me here for a reason."

"Do you just go wherever you're summoned then, huh? You really are just like a dog, Specs. It's why your nickname is so appropriate." Beilschmidt was smirking at him.

"Which nickname is that?"

"Papillion, of course." The smirk widened into a grin, and Roderich found himself chanting the mantra, _Don't slap him, don't slap him, don't slap him _over and over in his head. "Kind of endearing, don't you think?" The man snickered, running a hand through his silver-white hair. "Anyway, I see you met Tonio on his way out. Watcha think?"

"About your friend?" There was the faintest note of incredulousness in Roderich's voice.

"Yeah."

"I will never cease to be amazed that anyone can tolerate your presence for extended periods of time," the District Attorney replied in a completely somber voice.

"Goddammit, Roddy, you sound like my brother. He's all serious, too, you know. All, 'Gilbert, you should get a job' and 'Gilbert, you should work harder' and 'Gilbert, you should stop bringing prostitutes home with you.' I love my little Bruder, don't get me wrong, but he can be _so serious." _

"It seems we share similar opinions. Perhaps we would get along," Roderich mused.

Gilbert sized him up for a moment with a skeptically raised eyebrow, then burst out laughing.

"And what, pray tell, are you laughing at?" the brunette almost snapped.

"Ahahaha, y-you and Ludwig, _friends? _Pffft! You'd piss your panties if you so much as saw him!" Beilschmidt responded, laughing heartily at the thought and wiping an imaginary tear from his eye. "Aw, that's rich."

"That is rather quick to judge. You hardly know me." _Don't slap him, don't slap him, don't slap him._

"Touché, District Attorney. But, you know, you've been judging me this whole time. In fact, I don't even think you've given me a fair chance for a good first impression. Since the moment you saw me, you've hated me, so don't go nagging _me_ about prejudging." There was almost...anger in Beilschmidt's voice. Only it wasn't anger. Roderich struggled for a moment to pinpoint the emotional point in the albino's tone and finally settled on frustration. But at what? Roderich's own hypocrisy?

_I won't apologize._

"As you well know, presumptions were not what I came to talk about," Roderich said after a moment, pushing up his glasses with his index finger.

"Right, of course, you're here to talk about your stupid case instead of basking in my awesome like a good little boy," Beilschmidt replied with a snort, and Roderich found he could further identify that strange edge to the man's voice. It was some brand of bitterness. "Is work all you care about?"

"No, actually," Roderich responded.

"Oh, yeah? Name one thing you care about more than work," Beilschmidt challenged with a sneer.

"Music." The answer came easily, without any thought. Yes, music had to be the most important thing in the world to Roderich, the core of his being, the glue that held the shaking pieces of his instability in place to form some semblance of solidity. After years of suppressing himself and years of being suppressed, the closed-in young gentleman's only connection to his emotions had become music. It was, to a degree, his own world.

That was why he didn't realize that perhaps it was an inappropriate first answer before the accused man across from him jeered, "Pretty little girlfriend isn't your first answer, then? Tut tut, Roddy, bad choice."

And, for a fleeting moment, Roderich actually felt _shamed _by Beilschmidt's words. He nearly ducked his head for his insolence. After all, he had practically given up his main connection to music in order to be with Elizaveta. That should make her the most important thing in his life, the first thing he should name on his list of things more important than work. He felt guilty, even slightly mortified, at how quickly he had leapt to a hasty answer like "Music" instead of a logical, thought-out answer like "My significant other."

But then he remembered that it was Beilschmidt shaming him, and he collected himself, unwilling to show weakness to his adversary. For, as much as he tried to fixate his hatred (or at least dislike) on Bonnefoy as his main enemy, Beilschmidt was really his rival in this case.

"Of course Elizaveta is more important than music." He was fairly certain Beilschmidt wouldn't be able to detect the slight forced quality in the statement. "You asked me only to list off things more important to me than work. Music and Elizaveta are both more important than work."

"...aw, man, you're totally a procrastinator!" Gilbert said with a laugh after a moment. "You like your hobbies, don't you, Priss? Do they take priority over work?"

"No," Roderich responded. "I always make time for both." He did, however, leave out that the albino was right about his procrastination. Though he made time for work and hobbies, the latter usually came first chronologically. "And regardless, this is all beside the point. This is not what I came here to discuss."

"Right, I'm sure you have some great deal laid out for me that'll send me to a deluxe suite cell in prison if I tell you where I buried the bodies or some shit. But the thing is..." And here Beilschmidt allowed all four legs of his chair to rest on the concrete floor, leaning across the table towards Roderich. "...I don't give a damn about your plans and your deals and your rules, okay? I transcend 'em. I mean, I'm fucking _me, _after all, I'm awesome."

"You keep saying that," Roderich noted, "and yet, you have so little evidence to back it up."

"Aw, don't be a fuckin' stick in the mud, Papillion," Gilbert replied cheerfully. "The funniest part about it is you can't even offend my awesome, because it's just way too big to be bothered by a little gnat like you. You're like...a little mosquito bite. Annoying, but not damaging. You know?"

"I refuse to sit here and be patronized," Roderich hissed, getting to his feet; the chair slid across the floor behind him as he stood. "If you will not cooperate, then I will take my leave."

"Hey, hey, don't get so excited, Roddy. I didn't say I wouldn't cooperate."

But Roderich was unwilling to speak with this man anymore, this vile, horrid, disgusting man, this unbearably conceited egotist, this...this...villain. Without even a goodbye, he turned on his heel and stormed from the interrogation room in a flurry of fabric and frustration, slamming the metal door behind him. Someone else could deal with Beilschmidt. He couldn't take it anymore.

* * *

By the time Roderich got home from work that day, Elizaveta was seated in front of the television, a snack bar in one hand and a ten-pound weight in the other. She was doing arm curls at a steady pace, her green eyes watching the screen, glancing up at Roderich in greeting as he sat down beside her. The mayor was making a speech on television.

"He seems awfully upbeat," Elizaveta said with a snort, putting her feet on the coffee table. "His brother was just murdered, for God's sake, you think he'd be a little more solemn."

"It isn't as if they were twins," Roderich responded, sipping a glass of water. "Their relationship was not outrageously strong, as far as I know. Jones did care for his brother, but I think he left him behind somewhat in the wake of his political career." The District Attorney studied the pixilated face on the screen attentively. "He is upset, you know."

"Sure doesn't seem like it," his girlfriend commented.

"It is...somewhat difficult to tell," Roderich responded, "but you can see it. His posture. His expression. They are all considerably faker than usual. More forced." He might not have been the best at reading the atmosphere, but Roderich would be damned if he wasn't objectively attentive to detail.

"...they are?" Elizaveta's brow furrowed as she leaned towards the screen, as if that would make these small aspects of the mayor's pretense more visible.

"You would have to know what to look for," Roderich responded, somewhat dispassionately. "His smile is different, slightly smaller. He is stiffer than usual, and standing straighter. He's not gesticulating as wildly as usual, and his voice is louder than it needs to be. There are also shadows around his eyes, which either means the lighting is odd or he did not sleep well last night."

"How the hell can you tell all that just from looking at the TV screen?" Her green eyes were fixed on him skeptically.

"...is that unusual?" he asked her, glancing to the side to meet her gaze.

"Um, yes," she replied. "You're lucky we have an HD television set or I'd think you were psychic, pointing out all those details."

"Nonsense, extra-sensory perception is rubbish," Roderich replied, leaning back slightly.

"So how was your day?" she asked after a moment, seeming to give up on scrutinizing the television.

"Terrible," he told her bluntly.

Elizaveta's eyebrows knit together. "Really? Why?"

"Between having my eardrums nearly burst by a screaming arms dealer and forcing myself through another visit to Beilschmidt? I spilled my coffee this morning."

"...oh, dear, I'm sorry." Putting down her weight and her snack bar on the couch beside her, Elizaveta draped her arms around him lovingly and held him close, resting her head on his shoulder.

"...thank you." Roderich made the conscious decision _not _to tell Elizaveta what he had overheard upon returning to his office – as the ADA, she would undoubtedly want to get involved and ask more questions and get to the bottom of the confrontation he'd overheard, but Roderich refused to take action until he was sure it was necessary. After all, things could be misinterpreted...and his thoughts could be exaggerated, he didn't really _know..._

"Do you want to go to bed?" she asked him after a moment as she turned off the television.

_What I really want to do is play the piano._

"...no, I think I will...read for a little while," Roderich replied. "Are you going to bed?"

"No, I have some work to finish up." She didn't release him.

"I suppose you should do that, then..."

"I suppose I should."

Neither of them moved for another ten minutes.

* * *

**(A/N: There. Have a cute AusHun ending.**

**This brings us to the end of chapter 4. The updates will be slowing down a bit now because I'm entering territory I haven't prepared for yet. I should probably draft out an outline, because I really want to finish this story...regardless, no need to be concerned, the next chapter should be up soon!**

**Reviews are adored, and constructive criticism is definitely appreciated. Thanks for reading~)**


	5. Chapter 5

**(A/N: I AM SO SORRY IT TOOK SO LONG, but here is the (possibly) long-awaited Chapter 5. Between late summer vacations and schoo starting, it was pretty challenging to get this chapter finished any sooner, and my muse was dead for a little while. I credit "Don't Fear the Reaper" by Blue Oyster Cult for kicking me into gear to finish this chapter - though it has nothing to do with the content, heh.**

**Also, this chapter is brought to you by the song "Choices" by the Hoosiers. Enjoy!)**

* * *

"Good morning, Mr. District Attorney."

"Good morning."

"Ah, hello, Edelstein. Good morning."

"Good morning to you."

"Hey, good morning, Roderich!"

"Hello."

Roderich had to admit – he wasn't very enthusiastic when it came to social scenarios. It wasn't that he was socially awkward or anything of the sort – anyone who knew Roderich Edelstein also knew his manners were impeccable – he just found it exhausting. He was not cut out for the social scene.

So, by the time he finally reached his own office and his secretary's desk, he was feeling it was about time for another coffee.

"Good morning, sir," Helena greeted him brightly. Her wavy blonde hair had a headband in it today, he noted, and she seemed awfully awake considering what time it was. Not that Roderich wasn't somewhat of a morning person himself, but to be so alert...it was beyond him.

"Good morning, Helena," he responded, inclining his head courteously to her. "How are you?"

"I'm fine, sir. You look like you need a coffee." Her smile was sympathetic.

"...is it that obvious?" he asked, a slight note of concern in his voice.

"Not really. I guess I'm just attuned to it," Helena replied. "I'll go get you that coffee." She was already on her feet, heading towards the lounge and the coffee machine.

"Thank you," he called to her, feeling a slight swell of pride for his secretary as he headed into his office, making sure to close the door softly behind him. Today was a day for serious work – he had meetings to organize, and needless to say, he had to start drafting his opening and closing statements. He had appointments with potential witnesses to schedule, professional testimonies to collect, evidence to arrange...and not only on Gilbert Beilschmidt's case, but on the other cases he was currently working as well. It seemed a tremendous amount of work, Roderich reflected, but he had know that when he'd run for District Attorney – and he was prepared to see all of his cases through to the bitter end.

For all his procrastination, there was more than a little workaholic in him, after all.

After another moment of contemplation, Roderich picked up the black receiver of the phone on his desk and dialed the police station, adding the necessary extension for the Chief of Police's office and waiting through the accompanying rings, leaning back slightly in his seat.

After a few moments, he was answered by a somewhat gruff, British-accented voice.

"Arthur Kirkland speaking."

"Mr. Kirkland, good morning," Roderich replied, drumming his fingers absently in patterns on the desktop.

"...District Attorney. Something the matter?"

"I'd like to schedule a meeting with you to discuss the Beilschmidt case."

"That so."

"Yes," Roderich confirmed, though Kirkland's tone was hardly that of inquiry. "I require a more in-depth understanding of the evidence you have against Beilschmidt, and I may wish to subpoena some of your officers to appear in court."

There was something like a huff on the other end. "I'll talk with my secretary."

"Please contact me when you have an appropriate time."

"I will." And with that, the police chief hung up.

_He doesn't seem to like me very much, _Roderich reflected with some degree of amusement; he was about to think on the issue further when there was a light knock on his office door. "Come in," he called. Helena stepped in a moment later, a to-go cup of coffee in her hands.

"I brought you your coffee," she said, smiling as she approached his desk and set the cup near a stack of manila folders.

"Ahh, thank you." He almost smiled a little bit as well despite himself, closing his eyes as he lifted the warm Styrofoam container and brought the slot in the plastic lid to his lips. A sound of contentment escaped him as the warm, caffeinated liquid filled his mouth, prepared just the way he enjoyed, with a single cream and five sugar packets – he could tell. Helena certainly _was _attuned to his needs, but he supposed that wasn't unusual, after having been his secretary for nearly a year.

"Of course." She lingered in front of his desk a moment longer. "Do you need anything else?"

"That will be all," he informed her, setting the cup down once again and busying himself with some unfinished paperwork, faintly aware of the clicking sound of his office door opening and shutting as Helena departed from the room.

* * *

Roderich did nothing but work for another six hours, failing to notice the passage of time until it was nearly three o' clock in the afternoon and his phone was ringing.

He picked up the receiver, only then noticing how stiff he was; he hadn't left his chair for some time. "Yes?"

"You have a call from the mayor, line 2."

"Thank you, Helena," he responded, pressing a button on the phone with a gloved index finger. "Roderich Edelstein speaking."

"Hey, Edelstein, it's me."

"Oh, hello, Mr. Mayor." Roderich straightened slightly in his seat on instinct. "How may I help you?"

"...listen, any luck getting through to Beilschmidt?"

He could hear it in Alfred's voice – instead of recovering from the recent incident with his brother, the mayor seemed to be getting worse. Perhaps it was his initial facade of cheer and composure draining the life from him, perhaps some underlying guilt for his brother's death eating away at him, but Roderich knew the moment he heard the mayor's voice that Alfred Jones was not in a good place. And he assumed that was why it was so hard for him to speak after hearing that slightly desperate question, because he didn't want to have to tell Jones that no, he hadn't gotten through to Beilschmidt, and he really had no interest in doing so. The red-eyed man seemed to do everything in his power to annoy the living daylights out of the District Attorney, and if there was one thing Roderich hated more than injustice, it was being patronized. He could not tolerate Beilschmidt's demeaning behavior and he'd had, up to this point, absolutely no intentions of seeing his face ever again, save for in court under three months from now.

"I have to apologize, Mr. Mayor, I have not," Roderich managed after a moment of uneasy silence. Disappointing the mayor was something he found most unsatisfactory; Alfred was a good man, and to see him miserable or unhappy was like a stab in the heart, even to a distant gentleman like Roderich. "He has proved himself to be most...unpleasant company."

"Oh. I see." It was clear the mayor was trying to muster some of his usual liveliness and failing, as his voice was still flatter than usual.

"I am...truly sorry, Mr. Mayor, I know this case is important to you, and I promise, I will—"

"Alfred."

"What?" Roderich blinked, confused.

"Just call me Alfred, okay? That's my name."

Roderich felt his stomach wrench for the poor man and forced down his emotional response, trying to stay objective. "Very well, Alfred..." It felt awkward and improper to refer to Jones in such a manner, but at that point in time, Roderich felt as if that somewhat heartbreaking voice was reason enough to do as the mayor asked of him.

"Look, Edelstein, these past few days have been pretty rough on me, you know?" There was a semi-humorless laugh from the other end, and Roderich experienced a surge of vague sympathy for the man. "I know you're totally gonna kick ass in court like you always do, though. It's kind of reassuring."

"Thank you, sir," Roderich replied hesitantly.

"Yeah. Well, um...the thing is, I kind of." Roderich knew for a fact that Alfred never stammered and hardly ever faltered; if he was pausing so much in his speech, it had to be because he was preventing a wavering in his voice. "I want Beilschmidt to confess. You know. For Matt. I want you to be sure he's the guy when you're out there prosecuting."

"You want me to give it another try, then?" the attorney asked, dreading the response only slightly. The thought of seeing that awful sneering face ever again was enough to make him shiver, but the idea of leaving the mayor in this state was inconceivable. At this point, if Alfred asked him, Roderich knew it would be his duty to return to the county jail once more.

"I want you to. If you don't want to do it, then you can get someone else to do it, but I don't trust everyone in your office, so if you could...I dunno, suck it up and go? That would be awesome." There was a heavy sigh from the other end of the phone. "Jesus, that sounded fucking terrible, didn't it. I didn't mean to sound like such an asshole. That was way better in my head."

"...I understand," Roderich responded after a moment. "Perfectly. Leave it all to me, Mr. Ma—Alfred."

"...really?" Alfred's voice was immediately hopeful.

"Yes. I will pay Beilschmidt a visit later today."

"Man, Edelstein, you're the best." There was a note of happiness in the mayor's voice that had not been there before, and Roderich almost smiled. It was good that Alfred had not completely lost himself in grief. "Call me if anything new comes up, alright?"

"Of course."

"Okay, I'm going to Burger King for lunch today, so I'll talk to you later. See ya!" And with that, the mayor hung up.

Roderich sighed. It seemed another visit to the county jail was (unfortunately) in order.

* * *

"Awww, Roddy, I knew you'd be back for me!"

As soon as that grating, slightly unstable voice reached his ears, Roderich was oh, so tempted to just turn around and leave. _You can get someone else to do this. The mayor will still be pleased if Elizaveta can get a confession, or maybe Eduard, or any of the other attorneys in your office apart from you..._

No. Alfred had asked him to do this, and thus, it was his responsibility to deal with Beilschmidt.

_But you have so much work to do as it is. You have court next week and you have to finish your preparations, not to mention you still have a great deal of information to gather on the Kitchen Knife Murders and a stack of paperwork on your desk back at the office..._

No, no, no. He had to stop thinking about this. He was Roderich Edelstein, District Attorney of Velt City – he had fought his way through childhood and the educational system, he'd graduated from law school magna cum laude, and he'd ascended the ranks of the DA's Office all the way to the very top. If he could do that, there was no doubt that he could face down a common criminal and emerge victorious.

And with that in mind, he forced himself forward.

"I've come to talk, Mr. Beilschmidt," he said, bringing himself to a halt before the bars of Beilschmidt's cell. His long blue jacket fluttered and settled around his knees as he stopped.

"Y'know, I think you've said something to that effect both the other times you were here, and you haven't had any success. Maybe you should change your strategy. After all, wouldn't want you leaving in a huff again like some five-year-old, would we?" The albino was grinning at him from his cot again; he was sprawled across it this time, in the more customary clothing of the county jail. The bright orange jumpsuit looked awkward on him, but Beilschmidt didn't seem to care, as he radiated only overconfidence and vanity.

Roderich clenched his hands into fists. "What I said previously still stands. I will not be patronized."

"Fat lot of good that'll do, to just stand on the other side of those bars and preach to me." Beilschmidt snickered and sat up. "Listen, Papillion—"

"Do not call me by that name."

"I'll call you whatever I want!" The red-eyed man's tone was almost a snap, and Roderich, slightly surprised, fell silent. "Now I said 'listen,' and the least you can fucking do is grant the awesome me a few seconds of your _oh-so-valuable _time." Beilschmidt's tone dripped heavily with spite and sarcasm, and for a moment, Roderich wondered if this was his first glimpse of weakness. For just a moment, the facade of unruffled self-importance had slipped, and Beilschmidt had shown his temper. Roderich recalled a similar incident occurring during their first encounter, but this was different somehow.

"I'm listening," Roderich said patiently, after a moment.

"Good." The man cracked his pallid knuckles. "Listen, you don't like to be patronized? Well I don't fucking like it, either. So if you want to get any answers out of me, you're gonna have to step down off your little self-glorifying pedestal and talk to me like I'm a human being, not some criminal rotting in a jail cell. I ain't a piece of meat, got it?"

For the first time since they'd met, Roderich found himself feeling a rush of profound respect for Gilbert Beilschmidt. Yes, perhaps the young man was the scum of the earth, a conceited narcissist and cold-blooded murderer, but he had a sense of self-worth about him, of balance through imbalance. Even if he was vainglorious, there was a pride in him that Roderich hadn't bothered to notice before. The accused killer demanded to be valued instead of downgraded, treated like an adult human being and not a child. And Roderich, more than anyone else, could understand that.

He knew everything about wanting recognition you could never receive.

"_Father, I won the election today."_

"_Election? What election?"_

"_President of the Student Council. I've been preparing for this day nearly two weeks now, and—"_

"_Then you'd better do a good job. Now set the table and turn off the television."_

"I understand," Roderich responded after a moment, "but respect is a two-way street. I have no intention of respecting you if you do not respect me."

"Pfft." Beilschmidt made a derisive noise.

"If that is how you feel, you won't get very far with me," Roderich said coldly.

"Then I guess we're not going to get very far," Beilschmidt retorted in an almost childish way.

"So be it."

There was a long period of silence between the two. Beilschmidt broke it after about five minutes, seeming highly uncomfortable with the emptiness. "What do you mean by 'respect'?"

"What do _you _mean by respect?" the brunette replied, raising his eyebrows just a fraction.

"_I _mean that I don't want to be treated like—didn't I go over this already?" Beilschmidt seemed annoyed; Roderich wondered if life in jail was really starting to get to the man, or if he'd just caught him on a bad day. "Look, Priss, I just don't like being talked down to, the same as you. I've gotten enough of that in my life, and I don't need any more."

"How sad," Roderich replied with a note of mockery, the edge of a simper on his face. Beilschmidt glared at him.

"What, you think you've had it worse than I have? A rich boy like you?" The inmate snorted scornfully. "Fat chance, asshole!"

The temptation of a smirk faded instantly, replaced by a solemn glower. "You know absolutely nothing about my life, Gilbert Beilschmidt. Do not speak as if you do."

"And you don't know jack about _my _life, either, so stop playing the big shot!" Beilschmidt snapped. "I can read your story right here, anyway. Just from your face."

"Oh?" Roderich glared at him. "Can you?"

"Yeah, I can." The albino bit into the soft pad of his thumb, smiling. "You had everything you wanted as a child, everything you asked for. Got the best clothes and the best toys and the best friends that your parents picked out for you, only your parents were never home—"

"Stop it," Roderich hissed.

"They always left you to play with the servants, off on their long business trips, and you felt oh-so-neglected even though you had EVERYTHING. Everything except a loving family, right?"

"Stop it." Roderich's voice was slightly louder.

"And I bet you were so depressed because they were never around to show all the good things you did, so in your solitude you just decided you didn't need anyone, and that's how you became such a fucking tightwad—"

"_Stop it!" _He was close to yelling now, his exclamation loud enough to silence Gilbert, who paused midsentence and stared at him, seeming tentatively victorious, but somewhat perplexed at the same time. Roderich was fighting to control his breathing, reprimanding himself for every little twitch of his muscle and swell of anger he felt. In two three four, out two three four. In two three four, out two three four.

"You," he said after a moment, his voice shaking minutely, "know nothing. You know nothing about me, about my history, or about how I became who I am in the present. Do not pretend that you know me or understand me. You do not. And I predict you never will." His expression was as cold and hard as stone as he spoke. "I do not care about you, your past, your personality, or about understanding you. What I desire is a confession to put the mayor's mind at ease, and that is the only motivation I have ever had for visiting you. So don't you dare get cocky and self-important with me, Mr. Beilschmidt, I will not stand around to be witness."

Beilschmidt was silent for a long moment after that, staring at him, as if picking him apart piece by piece, analyzing him, weighing him. Roderich did not retract from his examination, but instead stood there, facing him almost defiantly, his dark eyes fixed on Gilbert.

"...you're kind of a shut-in, aren't you?" the albino said after a moment.

"Excuse me?"

"You try to act like you don't care about people, but you do. You just don't like to show it. Am I right?"

"That's...none of your business," Roderich muttered, slightly flustered.

Beilschmidt snorted. "You know, if you didn't have such a stick up your ass, you'd be almost attractive. I mean, not as hot as me, because _damn, _that's impossible, but—"

"This is not the conversation I'd like to be having," the brunette cut in, pushing up his glasses so his hand could shield his blush.

"Aw, are you _embarrassed?" _Gilbert was grinning at him again, and Roderich clamped his hand over his face for a moment, stifling his emotions before he responded.

"No."

"You might think you're a good liar, Specs, but I'm a better one. And I can read you like a book." The albino smirked at him, raising one of those profoundly distinct eyebrows at him.

"I don't believe you," Roderich responded evenly, leveling out his tone.

"Don't you?"

"No." The attorney ran a hand through his hair, over the strand he had so cautiously gelled down this morning and the morning before, every morning for years now. It was an object of ridicule. He despised ridicule.

Beilschmidt smirked, got up from his cot. "You sound so sure of yourself. Are you really that conceited, thinking you're the only one like you?"

"Do not address me as conceited. You are the conceited one here. You must be, seeing as you can't stop raving about your own 'awesomeness,'" Rod returned, somewhat more sharply than before. "And, if you must know, no, I am not that conceited. I am completely aware that no one person is a unique and beautiful snowflake." His tone was bitingly sardonic, his eyes fixed somewhat bitterly at Gilbert.

"That sarcastic comment about my awesomeness was totally uncalled for. I _am _that amazing," Gilbert grumbled, seeming not to hear the rest of what Roderich said. The brunette rolled his eyes. "What, do I have to make you believe it?" The prisoner arched an eyebrow at Roderich.

"And what possible evidence to the contrary could you have to sway my decision?" Roderich replied, almost growling.

Gilbert crossed his cell slowly, and Roderich saw that predatory glint in the man's crimson eyes return. A shiver ran down his spine. "I got ways, Roddy," the prisoner said, his face hovering just a few inches away from the bars. Roderich was about a foot from the door, but he suddenly felt as if his personal space was encroached upon...and yet, he could not move. For all his discomfort, his body would not react.

"And what...ways would that be?" Roderich hissed, trying not to seem shaken.

Beilschmidt laughed quietly, and before Roderich had a chance to counter, one pale hand shot out between the bars and grabbed the District Attorney's cravat, jerking the other man forward with a derisive little laugh as the man licked his lips. "Do you really want to know, Papillion?"

For a moment, Roderich just stared at the albino in shock, his indigo eyes wide and almost dazed. His heart hammered against his ribs. Beilschmidt grinned voraciously, his own eyes smoldered, alight with crimson flames that overwhelmed Roderich and kept him fixed to the spot for just a moment longer...

Then, with a great deal of self-control, Roderich smacked Gilbert's hand away and lurched backwards. He felt rage build up in his stomach, threatening to overflow – unadulterated, unconditional fury. "How. Dare. You," he snarled, his voice low and dangerous as he pitched forward, grabbing the bars and forcing Beilschmidt backwards just with the gravity of his movement. "How dare you _touch me, _you _vile, squalid IMBECILE."_ The albino, trying to recollect himself several feet away from the iron grate, stared at him in alarm, the disbelief obvious in his expression and his posture. "I will _not _tolerate such behavior from you. I will _not _permit you to harass me. I have come here to fulfill a duty to the mayor, _not _to play mind games with a soulless criminal like you!" He wasn't yelling – Roderich hardly ever yelled – but his voice was boiling silently with his wrath, his eyes ablaze with lightning. Somewhere in his mind, he reflected on this being the second time in the visit that Gilbert had managed to get under his skin so effectively...

Beilschmidt was silent. There was a long moment of undisturbed stillness between the two, perforated only by the seemingly distant background noises of the county jail and Roderich's quiet, heavy breathing as he fought to regain control of his emotions. Something in the criminal's demeanor had changed, something in the way he observed the enraged District Attorney...something that was not quite respect, and not quite admiration, but was not terribly far off the mark from either. He had the same puzzled, curious expression on his face as he had before.

Perhaps it simply wasn't the reaction he'd expected.

At last returning to a state of composure, Roderich released the bars he'd been gripping so vehemently and took a step back, observing Beilschmidt in silence. "Now," he said after a moment, pulling at the hems of his gloves, "I will be back tomorrow. If you do not cooperate me then, expect no mercy from me when the mayor suggests moving you to the city penitentiary."

Gilbert did not say a word.

Seeming satisfied with that reaction, Roderich offered the accused criminal the curtest of nods before he turned on his heel and left the prison, his mind a stew of thoughts.

What had that been, that brief fog of sensation that had welled up in him as he'd looked into those blazing eyes? It had left a trace in him, like a thorn in his side, a splinter in his finger he couldn't quite get out, itchy and hurting and irritating. Could it be...?

No.

No, it could not be that.

Gilbert Beilschmidt was a criminal. He was the District Attorney. He loved his girlfriend. He was an outstanding citizen of the community.

And yet, for all the wrongness of it, that feeling was almost undeniable.

Attraction.

* * *

Roderich went straight home from the county jail. He was too shaken to do anything else. He could feel his hands quivering slightly as he gripped the steering wheel. His mind was permeated with unneeded thoughts, unwanted conclusions, that looming image of scarlet eyes in the back of his mind...

No! NO. This was...this was...s-so inappropriate, he couldn't possibly, it was unfeasible, it was unheard of, he...

There was no way, no way in _hell _he could be even the _slightest _bit attracted to Gilbert Beilschmidt, not after what that scum had done, not after how he had so deliberately violated his personal space in such a vulgar way, those sordid implications he had made...no. No. Of course not. He had just been startled, that was all, that was the best explanation for it. Of course, yes, just a bit shaken up, that was all he was. It had been an irrational thought in a moment of confusion.

_The curve of that smirk..._

Roderich slammed on the brakes, just in time to stop a collision with an indignantly honking SUV as it sped by him.

He pulled over to the side of the road and blasted the classical music station until he could think clearly.

* * *

"_The mayor declared today that he will be launching a full-on manhunt for the criminal nicknamed the 'Kitchen Knife Murderer' by local newspapers. Mayor Jones stated that he and Chief of Police Arthur Kirkland will be working together fully to bring the criminal to justice and keep Velt City safe—"_

With a sigh, Roderich turned off the TV and leaned back into the cushions of the couch. He was exhausted. After seven attempts, he had found that could not pick the lock on the music room door, and thus there was no real way for him to...well, to think about this properly, to play out his emotions on the keys like he had always done, before Elizaveta had prohibited it.

But watching TV didn't help. If anything, it just stirred up the silt in the river.

The brunette massaged his temples hopelessly, getting to his feet. Well, Elizaveta would be coming home soon—she said she was going to be working late tonight, and as soon as she came home, he could ask her—

SLAM.

Roderich started as the front door swung shut with a bang, his head turning towards the entrance so quickly he felt his neck crack. "E...Elizaveta?" he asked, his tone simultaneously curious and nervous. "Is that you?"

Elizaveta was hurrying into the room, looking exhausted, her hair and clothes rumpled and her chest heaving. She glanced up at Roderich, leaning against the doorway for support, her green eyes clouded with concern.

"Elizaveta!" Roderich exclaimed worriedly, hurrying over to her. He placed a hand on either shoulder gently, tilting his head to the side. "Wh-what's wrong, dear? What happened?"

"I just got the news. I came home as fast as I could to tell you..." She wasn't looking at him now, her gaze fixed on her shoes. Roderich's eyes widened a fraction, and he shook her gently to get her attention.

"Tell me what?"

"Roderich..." Slowly, she looked up at him, her expression almost hopeless. "Gilbert Beilschmidt's made bail."

* * *

**(A/N: GODDAMN THAT WRITER AND HER CLIFFHANGERS.**

**Hur hur, so yeeeees, this is where the UST finally starts to emerge more prominently. And don't we all just love UST? Oh, and I have a feeling that Helena looks like/is Belgium, even if Helena is a batshit random name for her that I put absolutely no thought into. I just tells it like I sees it.**

**That's all for this chapter. I'm not entirely sure when the next one will be up, but I don't think it will be nearly as long as this time. Also, may it be known that I love reviews. |:**

**See you all in the next chapter~)**


	6. Chapter 6

**(A/N: Okay, you guys, I am sorry this took a long time, but I don't think it was AS LONG. I've been pretty busy with school and stuff, but I guess that's what you get for taking a bunch of higher level classes - more work. I was also pretty blocked on this chapter for a long time, but with some coaxing/intimidating from my bestest friend and the inspiration of music, I've finally completed this chapter.**

**I know there's probably a song I could dedicate this chapter to somewhere, but I don't really want to think about it right now. This is also the LONGEST chapter in this story so far, which is another reason why it took so long - it's over 7,000 words. But a lot of stuff goes down in this chapter...and it's mostly drama. It's also somewhat of a Roddy-centric chapter, but a lot of new characters also get introduced ("a lot" meaning "three"), so. c:**

**There's also a little GerIta and Spamano in this chapter.**

**Hope you enjoy!)**

* * *

It took a long moment for the thought to process in Roderich's mind. _Gilbert...Beilschmidt's...made...bail..._

It couldn't be. Not so soon. He wasn't finished with him yet, he wasn't _supposed _to make bail, this wasn't how it was supposed to work!

"...he...did...what?" he asked slowly after a moment, his voice halting and soft. "H-how? When?"

"Less than half an hour ago. He..." Elizaveta moved closer to Roderich as if it would assuage the obvious anger that quivered in her tone. "His younger brother's life partner is Feliciano Vargas..."

"As in, the head of Vargas Industries?"

"Yeah, as in Vargas Industries, the world's leading producer of pasta products. As in Feliciano Vargas, the rich little bastard who just bailed our _prime suspect _out of _jail _at Beilschmidt's brothers request." Her tone was slowly growing louder and louder, the fury in her voice mounting slowly."And you want to know the best part? That jerky little friend of his, Carriedo, is dating Feliciano's _brother, _Lovino Vargas, so we're up against _two _fucking billionaire Italian sons of bi—"

"Elizaveta." Roderich brought an index finger to her lips, silencing the ADA. She looked up at him, surveying his shockingly calm expression, and took a deep breath, trying to imitate him.

"Jesus." The young lawyer ran a hand through her light brown hair, disturbing the flower she'd tucked behind one ear. "I just...who could have even _predicted..._Feliciano motherfucking Vargas..."

"No-one could have predicted it," Roderich assured her, pulling her closer to him supportively.

"It's not _fair, _Roderich...a million dollars for the Vargas brothers is like twenty bucks for us..."

"I know." Roderich heaved a sigh of discontent. "I cannot say I'm not displeased with this outcome, but..." He mustered a little smile, touching her cheek. "There is nothing we can do about it now. We'll have to sort the rest of this madness out in court."

"How can you be so optimistic? Now it'll be ten times harder to get a confession out of him than it would have been if he'd stayed in jail!" Elizaveta argued, her mouth set in a narrow line of exasperation. "Roderich...I know you wanted to get that confession for the mayor, how are you not furious about this?"

Roderich paused for a moment, inhaling and exhaling slowly. "I am upset," he admitted. The statement was hollow – expressing his emotions in sentences just seemed wrong, unfitting. The feelings that welled up in the pit of his stomach transcribed themselves into music in his mind, not into words. When he was distressed, it was not the word "distress" that sprang into the forefront of his brain – it translated into Beethoven's "Rage Over a Lost Penny." And that was the pattern he found his fingers twitching in, drumming faintly against the back of Elizaveta's suit jacket. "I am upset," he repeated, somewhat unnecessarily.

She looked at him questioningly.

"What I intend to say is," he rephrased, "this does have an effect on me...believe me." And that was not a lie. Roderich was disconcerted. "But blowing the matter out of proportion gets me no closer to convincing a jury of Beilschmidt's guilt. Bail or no bail, he is still obligated to appear in court."

"And what if he leaves town?" Elizaveta asked, somewhat desperately.

Roderich was silent for a long moment. "Then he is out of our jurisdiction..."

"How can you be so damn calm about everything?" The young woman jerked away from him and fell back against the wall, staring at him with wild green eyes. "You're acting like the case would end as soon as he left your jurisdiction!"

"By no means," Roderich responded coolly, taking a step back as if giving her room to breathe. "But I..."

The truth was, he would be inexplicably enraged if Beilschmidt's case slipped between his fingers; it was the biggest and most controversial triple homicide in the recent history of Velt City, and to allow it to just...dissipate into thin air...it was to let the mayor down, to let the city down, and to let himself down.

But Elizaveta need not know that.

"You what?"

"...nevermind. I'll talk to you about this case tomorrow. I'm very tired."

"Roderich!"

"What?"

Elizaveta was glaring at him; he returned her furious expression with one of polite confusion. "What have I done?"

"You're not talking to me," she said simply, watching him.

"...perhaps I don't wish to talk right now," he responded curtly.

"Roderich!" she yelled again, stamping her foot.

"What?" he responded once more, his voice raising just a fraction with frustration.

"Talk to me!" The look in her eyes was almost pleading. "You never fucking talk to anyone! You just...you just pull into yourself, like a fucking hermit crab! I'm sick of it!"

"Well, my apologies that you dislike who I am," Roderich responded coldly, feeling his temper flare just slightly.

"I never said I dislike who you are! I dislike your behavior!" Elizaveta yelled back at him, shoving him away from her with a great push to the chest. He stumbled backwards, alarmed.

"My behavior is a part of who I am," he reminded her, his voice rising just a fraction. "Why is it you are so opposed to my methods of dealing with my emotions?"

"Because it's NOT. HEALTHY!" she shouted. "Can't you see I'm trying to HELP you?"

"Maybe I don't _wish _you to help me! Perhaps, Elizaveta, I am _perfectly happy _the way I am!" he was practically yelling now, as well, but he had transcended caring; his entire being was offended by her words, and he was tired and upset and wanted nothing more than to just kick down the music room door and play and play and play his piano until he forgot how to do so.

"HOW CAN YOU BE HAPPY?" she screamed. "HOW CAN YOU POSSIBLY BE HAPPY WHEN YOU FEEL LIKE YOU CAN'T OPEN UP TO ANYONE? WHO HURT YOU SO BADLY THAT YOU'RE PHYSICALLY INCAPABLE OF MAKING EMOTIONAL CONNECTIONS?"

Roderich was silent for a long time. His eyes drifted slowly to his feet.

"...Roderich, I..." There was guilt in her voice when she next spoke.

"Do you think I am incapable of making an emotional connection with you, Elizaveta?" His tone was soft, bearing the faint illusion that he was not hurt, but shaking gently with the proof that he was.

"...no, Roderich, I didn't mean that, I—"

"I'm sorry."

He could feel her stare at him. "...I'm the one who should be sorry, don't—"

"No." He stopped her, a faint, humorless smile pulling at his lips. "This is my fault."

"Roderich, don't blame yourself—"

"No, you're entirely correct...my emotional shortcomings are my own responsibility." Roderich turned away from her slowly. "I'm going to bed..."

"...Roderich, can't we talk about this?"

"There's nothing to talk about," he responded flatly, heading towards the bedroom with his eyes fixed steadily on the door. "I'll talk to you about the case in the morning."

"Roderich—"

But before she could get another word in, he had closed the door behind him.

* * *

Roderich awoke the next morning to the sound of his phone going off.

Normally, that early in the morning, he would have been far too bleary to exert the effort of turning over in bed and reaching over to the bedside table for his cell phone, which was obnoxiously blasting some default ringtone that had come with the device and that he'd never bothered to change. Feeling inexplicably awake, he seized the phone and flipped it open, bringing it to his ear. "Yes, hello?"

"Hey, Papillion. Fancy that, you really are an early bird."

Roderich shot up straight in bed. "...how did you get this number?"

"Aw, come on, now. In this town? It ain't hard." Beilschmidt's all-too-recognizable voice chuckled ominously on the other end.

The attorney was silent for a long time. "What do you want?"

"Meet with me."

"Why?"

"Because I asked you to."

Roderich frowned. "That's not a good reason."

"But it's a reason. So agree to it."

There was a long pause in the conversation. "Fine."

"In back of Tino's in an hour."

"Very well." Roderich slammed the phone closed with a note of irritation and set the device back on the table, immediately seeking out something, anything, to glare at. That damn...blockhead, that moronic, vile human being...

He knew he didn't have to go to this meeting, that he had been free not to answer his phone as soon as he saw "Unknown Number" on the Caller ID (which he had forgotten to glance at), but something...compelled him to, as if he felt he had to. There was some necessity in attending this meeting that he couldn't refute. He had to go.

He couldn't quite remember getting ready to go to Tino's or even going – it was as if he was just suddenly there, standing in the abandoned parking lot behind the little café. It was eerily desolate at this hour, save for his own car, and a bright red Corvette parked several spots away from him.

A Corvette. Classy. Roderich practically scoffed, training his indigo eyes on the lithe figure leaning against the side of the sleek scarlet car, now seeming to be staring at him from across the parking lot – it was hard to tell from so far away.

The figure left his post at the side of his car and began walking quickly towards Roderich; the brunette did the same, though his pace was slower, more cautious. He had recognized Beilschmidt instantly from the distinctive whitish hair and pallid skin, but as the other neared, his features became more distinctive...particularly those leering ruby eyes, which were fixed on him with a slightly eerie concentration.

They both stopped when about four feet remained between them and stared each other down, neither willing enough to take another step forward nor honest enough to take a step back; the proximity was at the same time comfortable and uncomfortable.

"...you came," Gilbert stated blatantly after a moment.

"I did," Roderich responded, raising his chin.

"Good." The albino grinned at him. "Means you listen to me."

"...excuse me?" The darker-haired of the two became indignant, almost advancing a step with his anger.

Gilbert just laughed at him. "Chill out, Priss, I was joking."

Roderich retreated, fuming in silence; as if to counter his failure to move forward, Beilschmidt stepped towards him, and Roderich, not to be intimidated, refused to step back. "You know," the accused murderer mused, that grin fading to a wily smirk, "you're kinda hot, Roddy. Anyone ever told you that?"

Feeling heat creeping up into his cheeks, Roderich pushed up his glasses and re-centered himself. _I am here for work. Not because he asked me to. He holds no power over me. _"What exactly is the nature of this meeting, Mr. Beilschmidt?"

"Does it have to have a nature?" the other grumbled, shuffling in just a little bit more. Roderich refused to move, even when he felt a hand on his shoulder, even when Beilschmidt was just inches from him, even when he felt a shiver run up his spine from the proximity.

"What are you doing?" he hissed.

Beilschmidt smirked, playing idly with the curl atop Roderich's head, which he had somehow forgotten to gel down that morning. "I'm freeing you."

"What is that supposed to mea—"

But he hadn't the opportunity to finish his inquiry, as the other man lurched forward and caught his lips in a soft kiss.

Roderich's first reaction was shock; his second was indignation, and within a fraction of a moment, he shoved the albino away with a grunt of irritation, immediately taking a step away and glowering at him with every ounce of malice he possessed. (Given, Roderich was never a very malicious soul.) Beilschmidt looked calmly back at him, a faint fire flickering in those beautiful crimson eyes.

Suddenly, nothing else was of any consequence to Roderich.

He moved forward on a surge of impulse, his hands flying to either side of Gilbert's face as he pulled the man into a passionate kiss. The albino was briefly surprised, but was soon moving his own mouth in response, placing his hands on Roderich's hips and deepening the kiss immensely. The brunette felt a gasp escape him, his arms sliding around the defendant's neck to pull him in even closer. Their hips collided; a little moan escaped the pale man hovering close to him, and he repeated the action, more intentionally this time, harder. Roderich whimpered at the friction and slid a hand down Gilbert's chest, feeling their tongues touch and intertwine and battle for dominance over the other as Gilbert's hand groped shamelessly at his behind.

"G-Gilbert...a-ah..." the attorney managed, pushing weakly at Beilschmidt's chest in some vain attempt to free himself.

The taller of the two snickered softly. "You saying my name like that is fucking amazing, Roddy," he whispered, breaking the kiss to run his tongue over the beauty mark under Roderich's lips. A strangled scream swelled in Roderich's throat, but he stifled it to the point of a soft cry. Beilschmidt made a noise of dissatisfaction.

"Now, now, Papillion. Nobody's watching us. Let's unravel those inhibitions of yours, huh?" And with that, he shoved a slender, pale hand down Roderich's pants.

* * *

Roderich jolted awake to the sound of his alarm clock loudly announcing that it was 6:45 AM.

On any normal morning, he would have jumped out of bed immediately and headed for the bathroom (he woke up early intentionally so he could squeeze a shower in and get a jump on making coffee before Elizaveta even stirred), but this morning, he could do nothing but lie in bed and stare at the ceiling, his eyes wide with horror, the images from the dream he'd just awoken from seared into his mind.

Had he just...fantasized...about Gilbert Beilschmidt?

...oh God.

OhGodohGodohGodohGodohGodNO.

NO NO NO NO NO NO OH GOD NO.

Roderich gripped at the sheets, feeling himself tremble gently. _No...n-not about a defendant...never...ESPECIALLY not him..._

Whether or not Roderich was a closet bisexual, which he was, was not the issue here. In fact, the concern was not even that he'd had such a raunchy dream about a defendant. The real reason Roderich had broken out into a cold sweat the moment he had remembered the actions of his subconscious was because of _every defendant he could have fantasized about, _he had to have such an...appalling dream about the most conceited, depraved, pretentious, arrogant, vulgar, boorish, _SELF-CENTERED BASTARD _he had ever met.

And even after an unusually long and cold shower, Roderich found he could not get those thoughts from his mind.

"Dammit," he snarled at the coffee pot as he poured himself a cup of the steaming brown liquid. He swore at the utensils, he swore at the plates, he swore at his breakfast, he swore at the bathroom door—the only thing it seemed he had no intention of swearing at was Elizaveta, who exited the bedroom blearily about a half an hour later.

"Roddy?" she asked with a small yawn. "Whazz goin' on? 'S too early for you t'be slammin' things around..."

Roderich looked up from the piece of toast he had been cutting wrathfully into pieces with his knife. "Oh..." His expression morphed slightly from one of anger to one of remorse; despite their fight the evening before, Roderich still cared for Elizaveta far too deeply than to wish to wake her up with his fury at his own subconscious. "...I'm sorry, did it wake you?"

"Nah...more like I woke up to it," she responded, stifling another yawn with her hand. "Did you make breakfast already? Y'didn't have to...we have some muffins left over..."

"...I wanted to," he responded. His answer stemmed not only from his desire to fix their conflict from the night before, but also to assure himself that he did love his girlfriend – it was some weak strategy of getting rid of his horror towards last night's dream.

"Well, you didn't have to," she repeated, though she took some scrambled eggs from the "community pan" on the stove, as well as a piece of toast. Already irritated by...certain nightmares (because he'd decided to call it a nightmare, even if it really hadn't been one), he found the tone of her voice grating and unwelcome and stared down angrily at his breakfast, continuing to feverishly cut his toast into smaller and smaller pieces.

He chose not to say anything.

The rest of the morning passed in awkward silence between the two of them. They spoke little, and when they did speak, it was concerning a case – if not Beilschmidt's, then another. The dishes were done and put away, the breakfast was cleaned up, and Roderich left the kitchen to get ready for work, leaving Elizaveta to do...whatever it was she wished to do. This morning, he was far too frustrated to care exactly what her whereabouts were every second of the day.

He had the overpowering urge to break something. Or slam on the piano for a few hours. Either one would work just fine for him.

And yet, he could do neither.

It was like he was always caught in this limbo with his emotions now, trapped between safe expression through music and an explosive outburst from holding his feelings in for so long...and it was an agonizing place to be. He hated it. This wasn't his glass wall – from there, he could play his piano as much as he wanted and rant and rave and beat on the glass all he pleased, without the repercussion of anyone seeing him. This was more of a prison cell, this discomfort, he decided, making the conscious choice not to slam his fist into the bathroom mirror as he so desired. No. He was better than that. He had it under control.

_Everything is under control._

But was it? Was it really?

_Yes. Everything._

But how could he be sure of that? How did he know he wasn't going to snap, to lose it in front of Elizaveta, or even at work?

_Because I won't. Because I won't allow that to happen._

But that dream last night was proof – he didn't have control over everything.

_YES I DO._

He failed to realize he had said that aloud until he heard Elizaveta calling for him from the other room, and he heaved a great sigh, slumping against the counter. This constant battle with himself was exhausting. Between his lack of a good means of self-expression, his conflict with his girlfriend, the tremendous pressure of the Beilschmidt case and others as well as the mental welfare of the mayor – not to mention his heatedly refuted attraction to Beilschmidt – Roderich felt like he was being suffocated, like there was a clamp around his chest that was slowly being tightened, and tightened, and tightened.

"Damn it," he hissed, running a hand through his messy morning hair. That cowlick strand was standing up again, and all Roderich found it reminded him of was the Beilschmidt in his dream twining it around his finger, like he found it cute.

He made a fuss of gelling it down so it didn't stick up even in the slightest.

* * *

When he arrived at his office later that morning, a foreign figure was standing outside of his office. He was a small man, slender, with auburn hair and a tanned complexion. One curl of hair stuck out freely in a cute loop from one side of his head, and he was speaking to Helena, seated at her desk, in a laid-back, slightly high-pitched voice.

"Yeah, pasta is really good, don't you think? I love it. I would eat it every day if I had the chance~"

"Uh..." Helena was nodding a little bit in response to the handsome young man, who spoke with a pleasant Italian accent and many elaborate hand gestures. "Yes, um..."

"Helena?" Roderich asked, with a slight intonation of confusion as he approached his secretary and the stranger. "Who is this?"

"O-oh, Mr. District Attorney, you're...here..." The young blonde woman cleared her throat and stood up from her chair, glancing at the Italian and then back at her employer. "This is, um...Mr. Feliciano Vargas..."

"...Vargas?" Roderich asked, with a slight swell of surprise. Though he had seen a few pictures of the Vargas brothers in the past in newspapers and on websites, he hadn't expected the younger of the two brothers to be so...so...

Daft-looking.

...well, perhaps that was a cruel way of putting it, but he had expected the heir of a multimillion-dollar pasta company to look a little brighter and more upright, not sleepy and happy-go-lucky and cheerful. But he supposed he couldn't judge the boy without knowing him...that would be unfair.

"Ve~ It's nice to meet you, Mr. District Attorney. I am Feliciano Vargas, I run Vargas Industries with my brother!" The Italian offered his hand to Roderich.

It was only out of sheer courtesy that the District Attorney shook it, because all he found himself thinking was, _This is the idiot who paid Gilbert Beilschmidt's bail. How dare he come to my office?_

"The pleasure is mine," he replied stiffly, nodding. "How may I help you today, Mr. Vargas?"

"Well, Ludwig and I, we came to talk to you about the case!" Feliciano responded, looking up brightly at Roderich. The District Attorney felt a stab of annoyance. Couldn't these morons just leave him alone until this case was over? He was more than tired with having to deal with "He's innocent" this and "He'd never do it" that. After all the high-profile cases he'd been through, he was tired of hearing it over and over and over. Family members didn't always expect their favorite relatives to be murderers or rapists or bank robbers, but more often than not, they were. Criminals of Beilschmidt's caliber were usually intelligent enough to fool their loved ones into believing they were not guilty of the crime they had committed.

"Ludwig Beilschmidt?" Roderich asked in a tone that conveyed no surprise, one eyebrow raising just a fraction – his voice was equally as unsmiling as his face.

"Ve, yessir!" The Italian smiled lazily. "He was going to get Antonio and Lovi, he should be back soon~"

"...your brother is here." There was little intonation of a question in the words.

"Yes," the younger Vargas responded in a sing-song sort of voice. "We all came to talk to you~!"

"Wonderful," Roderich muttered bitterly. Feliciano didn't seem to pick up on the dissatisfaction in his voice, continuing to look up at him with a slightly dreamy stare.

"Feliciano." A deep voice behind him caught Roderich's attention, and he turned around just as the Italian before him shot past him and threw his arms around the neck of a tall, muscular blonde with a cry of, "LUDWIG~!"

Ludwig...tall, muscular blonde...that was so familiar somehow, but Roderich couldn't place it. He somehow hadn't made this connection with the name Ludwig before, but now, seeing Ludwig Beilschmidt for what was supposed to be the first time, he felt as if that squarish chiseled face was recognizable, those pale blue eyes, that gruff voice...

"_I'm going into the military after I graduate."_

That was it! His roommate his senior year of college...his name had been Ludwig! How had he not seen that before? How was it he'd never taken the time to memorize Ludwig's last name?

A brief scene that had transpired between the two of them on Roderich's last day of university flashed through his mind.

"_The last day..." Roderich was examining his graduation robes, consumed with that slightly obsessive tendency of his to make sure that every last thread of his clothing was in place for formal events. "It's somewhat hard to believe it's over at last, isn't it, Ludwig?"_

_The blonde made a noise of recognition. He was packing a suitcase. There was no reason for him to fuss with any robes – Ludwig was only a college freshman this year, unlike Roderich, who was a senior. The comparison was ironic - Ludwig was much taller and larger than Roderich, and once could almost interpret him as the elder of the two. His demeanor was just as mature as Roderich's was, despite the age difference._

"_I've already been accepted into law school," Roderich mused, frowning as he noticed a wrinkle in the robe. He pulled at the fabric in an attempt to make it less noticeable. "What are you going to do after you graduate? I hope you have decided by now...though you do have three years to think about it, unlike me."_

"_I'm going into the military after I graduate," Ludwig had said, folding a t-shirt and placing it neatly into the suitcase._

"_Oh, that's interesting," Roderich had reflected; he'd always thought of Ludwig as the sort to go into the army, so the statement was fairly unsurprising to him._

"_Mmm."_

"_...well..." Finished messing with the robes, Roderich looked up and smiled a little bit at his roommate, who straightened from his packing and looked steadily back at him. "It seems this will be the last day we spend together in this dorm...I find it a bit nostalgic."_

"_...I guess," Ludwig had responded._

"_I suppose this is goodbye, then. I doubt you'll be spending time with _me_ after the graduation ceremony, so we may never see each other again," Roderich said, his tone formal and diplomatic._

"_Right." The man nodded curtly. "Goodbye then, Roderich. It was...a pleasure knowing you."_

_The slightest of smiles pulled at the brunette's lips. "The pleasure is mine."_

To think...and then, Roderich had thought he would never see Ludwig again. Yet, here he was – a little older and rougher around the edges, probably from years of warfare, but the same man nonetheless.

But...Ludwig _Beilschmidt. _Of every man the blonde had to be brothers with...

He recalled, back in their college days, that Ludwig spoke of his older brother often, and with a degree of affection he rarely spared for anything else, besides exercise and wurst. But for it to be Gilbert Beilschmidt, that same crazy brother Ludwig had spoken about with such softness in his voice as "the man who raised me"...unbelievable.

"...Roderich Edelstein." His train of thought was interrupted by that deep, serious voice, and he felt his eyes refocus, fixing on Ludwig's familiar face. Feliciano was clinging to his waist, and Antonio Carriedo, holding the hand of a reluctant-looking Italian of a darker complexion (Roderich assumed this was Lovino Vargas), was coming up behind the pair.

"Ludwig," Roderich responded with a curt nod of the head. "It's been a long time, hasn't it?"

"Yes," the burly man responded. "...this is my..." He seemed to trail off in embarrassment, then started his sentence anew. "This is Feliciano Vargas."

"I'm his boyfriend!" the auburn-haired young man piped up cheerfully, leaning against his fair-haired companion. Ludwig's cheeks colored slightly, and he looked away, seeming self-conscious. It was somewhat of a new experience for Roderich to see Ludwig blush – he wasn't sure if he had ever seen it in the year of college he had known Ludwig. The university had been fairly full that year, he recalled, and his old roommate had transferred to another school, so Ludwig had been forced to room with an upperclassman. Roderich hadn't minded it at all – in fact, he'd been more than pleased that his roommate was so hardworking, athletic, and busy. It kept him out of trouble and out of Roderich's business.

"We've met." Roderich looked back up at Ludwig. "I'm very happy for you," he noted, with a dainty smile.

Ludwig made a noise of gratitude.

"Eh, so..." Carriedo was speaking now, taking a step forward. Roderich's attention switched to him. "We...came today to talk about Gilbert..._nuestro amigo, _our friend."

"Speak for yourself," the darker-skinned Vargas brother grumbled, looking sullen. Carriedo cast him a meaningful look, and he fell grudgingly silent.

"Mr. Carriedo, I already informed you that if you have any desire to be a witness for the defense, you will have to speak with Counselor Bonnefoy..."

"Francis already knows what we want to say. We wanted to say it to you," Carriedo cut in.

"And whyever would you feel it necessary to do such a thing?" Roderich asked calmly. "I am the prosecuting attorney, you realize; giving me your statements ahead of time will do your friend no good in court."

"That's not what we mean," Carriedo continued, his tone surprisingly solemn for such a nonchalant fellow. He seemed the spokesman of the little party, appearing to be the best combination of charisma and intelligence. "We want to...convince you to drop the case against him."

Roderich felt himself stiffen. _Drop the case? Do they KNOW what they are asking me to do? Those morons, thinking it is so simple to just drop such a high-priority case... _"I'm afraid I cannot be convinced to do so," he replied evenly, a hint of ice in his voice. "This case is top priority, both to me and to the mayor, and dropping it is not nearly as simple as you seem to think it to be." He made note, a little sourly, of the hint of cynicism in his voice, but did not apologize or correct himself. His day was not going according to plan; this on top of his drea—NIGHTMARE last night, plus Elizaveta's curt behavior and their fight the night before, had already made his morning unpleasant. This was sincerely the last thing he wanted or needed. He had work to do.

"Please just hear us out," Carriedo pleaded, taking a step forward. There was a beseeching look in his pretty green eyes, one that Roderich had the strong, slightly sadistic desire to crush under the heel of his boot. "_Por favor_, Mr. District Attorney. We have a good argument."

"Why should I listen to you?" Roderich asked calmly.

"_Signore,_ please!" the younger Vargas brother begged. "Gilby is a good person! Really!"

Roderich made a sound of irritation, feeling a vein throb in his temple. "Listen, I'm sure your friend is very touched that you came all the way to my office to speak with me on his behalf, but I have a considerable amount of work—"

"...Roderich."

The District Attorney paused, shifting his attention to Ludwig – this was the first time the man had spoken in the last few minutes, and his opinion was truly the only one Roderich held any concern for. The other three in the group mattered very little to him, but he _knew _Ludwig. They had been friends, in the past.

_But even if he was or is my friend...I simply cannot drop this case. Mayor Jones—no, Alfred is counting on me to bring this man to justice, and I will see his wishes through. I bear a great deal more respect for him than for Ludwig._

Still, he locked gazes steadily with the fair-haired man, quirking one eyebrow with the air of a question.

"My brother is not a murderer." Ludwig's eyes were hard and serious.

"I know you must believe that," Roderich responded. "But—"

"I know this is imposing on you a great deal, Roderich, but..." The young German took a breath. "...please allow us to speak with you about this."

Roderich was silent for a long moment, weighing his options as the small squad of freedom-fighters looked on anxiously. At last, the attorney heaved a sigh, turning towards his office. "Come in. Please do your best to make this quick and painless for all of us, I have a meeting to schedule with the Chief of Police."

There was a communal sigh of relief amongst the members of the group, with varying levels of volume, and the four of them followed him through the heavy wooden door of his office. Roderich sat down behind his desk, his back straight, steepling his fingers and resting his elbows on the desktop. "Have a seat," he instructed, gesturing to the two chairs before his desk and the two against the wall that they might pull over for the others. Though Lovino Vargas pulled a chair over to sit next to Antonio, Feliciano Vargas chose to merely sit in Ludwig's lap, and though the military man initially made a sound of protest, he seemed to settle quickly into the duty of serving as the auburn-haired young man's seat, in place of a real chair.

Roderich observed the two lovers, the German and the Italian, without a word, then leaned back slightly in his chair. "Well, then. I have a meeting at 9:30. It is presently 9:07. You have my attention for the next fifteen minutes, but after that, I am afraid I must cut you short."

Ludwig and Antonio looked at each other. The blonde gave the Spaniard a quick nod, and in turn, Carriedo shifted his attention to Roderich.

"_No pensamos_...w-well, that is, we don't think that Gilbert killed anyone." Anxiety seemed to be the cause of the green-eyed man's slip back into what Roderich assumed was his native tongue.

"And what evidence have you to support this theory?" Roderich asked calmly, straightening a stack of papers on his desk.

"Well, he...Gilbert might have been kind of a hooligan when he was younger, but he's a good guy, _señor. _He wouldn't do this kind of thing, not unless he had some sort of damn good reason," Carriedo said.

"I'd love to believe that were true, Mr. Carriedo, but you can provide me absolutely no proof that he did _not _commit the murders, isn't that correct?" Roderich knew he was being a bit heartless by neglecting to really listen to the opinions of these people, but this was the worst possible day for them to confront him about this. All he wanted to do was slog through the rest of his work day in peace and quiet, and then go home, kick down the door to the music room, and play the piano until he couldn't play anymore. He was in a truly hideous mood.

"Well, but we have a good theory," Carriedo continued cautiously.

"Oh?" Roderich raised his eyebrows. "Is that so?"

"Yes, sir. We believe...Gilbert was framed."

"Do you have any substantiation? Anything at all that would convince me to consider your theory even for a moment?"

"W-well, we..."

"Mr. Carriedo," Roderich interrupted, "I hate to sound discourteous, but if you have no evidence to support your theories or even any suspects of this supposed framing that you could name, you are simply wasting my time. My schedule is thoroughly hectic already, and I very much need to get back to work, so if you would be so kind as to depart from my office and return when you have solid endorsement of your hypothesis, it would be greatly appreciated."

The Spaniard seemed lost for words, and judging by Lovino Vargas' slightly concerned expression and light punch of Carriedo's shoulder, that wasn't something that happened often. When his companion failed to respond to his contact, the elder Vargas brother shot a glare in Roderich's direction and muttered something that sounded like "Bastard" under his breath.

"Roderich."

That was, what, the third or fourth time Ludwig had said his name to get his attention? Didn't he have anything else to say? In his dour mood, he found it quite annoying, but he shifted his gaze to the German nonetheless. "Yes, Ludwig?" he asked, all-too-politely.

"_Mein Bruder _is not a murderer." Ludwig's expression was rigid and stern, focused on the task at hand – convincing Roderich of his brother's innocence – despite the young Italian billionaire on his lap. "Please understand."

"...I'm sorry, Ludwig. I cannot drop this case based on an unverified claim," Roderich said, his voice just a bit softer and quieter, less official. It was harder to say it to a friend – much, much harder. _If he even still considers us friends. It's more than likely he won't after this encounter._

"I see." Ludwig set his lips in a narrow line.

"...now, it's 5:20, and I have to prepare for my meeting. I'll have to ask the four of you to leave." It took every ounce of Roderich's self-control to keep his tone even, quiet, and courteous, as it was entirely the opposite of how he wanted to sound. What he _wanted _to do was yell at them all to get the hell out of his office and stop wasting his time, that he was fucking tired of hearing about Beilschmidt, that he had _other _fucking cases that deserved his attention, and, more important, an ADA and girlfriend he'd just fought with the night before. That was what he wanted to say – nay, scream – but he didn't. He kept silent, as he usually did.

Carriedo and Ludwig looked at each other. Ludwig spoke quietly to Feliciano, who pouted slightly and sprung off his lap, and Antonio made a gentlemanly attempt to help Lovino out of his chair while the older Vargas brother swatted at his hands in annoyance. But, clumsily and awkwardly, the four at last made it out of his office.

Ludwig, the last to go, looked over his shoulder at Roderich before he slipped through the door after Feliciano, and Roderich made a point of mentally reaching out to touch his glass wall, just to make sure it was still there.

It was.

* * *

That night, he and Elizaveta had another fight.

By the time the battle was in full-swing, Roderich could hardly remember what the source of the fight was.

Oh, wait, that's right. Elizaveta had caught him trying to break into the music room.

He remembered standing there with the needle or whatever it was he had been using to attempt to pick the lock, his heart racing, the jolt he felt when he heard her menacing, "Roderich, what are you doing?" ringing out from behind him.

He remembered turning around slowly, almost frightened, but more angry than he was scared – and the fight had gone into a crescendo from there until the both of them were roaring. It was all a blur in his mind by now. All he felt was rage and hurt and...exhaustion, as if he were ready to just fall over and sleep forever and forget about this and forget about Elizaveta and forget about Gilbert Beilschmidt and his stupid dreams and forget about that tiny, tiny twinge of guilt he'd felt when Ludwig had looked at him over his shoulder. Roderich was finished ignoring it all, and he supposed that was why, this evening, he snapped.

He supposed that was why, this evening, he yelled at Elizaveta for the first time in their entire relationship, really, actually yelled at her. His mind could barely discern what they were even screaming _about _at this point, but it didn't matter. He was just mad mad mad mad mad.

"WHY WON'T YOU OPEN UP TO ME, RODERICH? DO YOU THINK I'M NOT GOOD ENOUGH OR SOMETHING? DO YOU THINK I'M NOT _WORTHY _TO KNOW WHAT THE GREAT AND GLORIOUS RODERICH EDELSTEIN IS FEELING?"

"_WORTHY? _IS THAT WHAT YOU THINK THIS IS ABOUT NOW, WORTHINESS? DO YOU CONSIDER ME SO CHEAP?"

"NO, RODERICH, COMPLETELY THE OPPOSITE! YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT IT'S LIKE TO HAVE ANYTHING LESS THAN EVERYTHING! YOU'VE ALWAYS HAD EVERYTHING, AND EVERYONE WHO DOESN'T HAVE EVERYTHING IS JUST _BENEATH _YOU!" She was shrieking now, in a frenzy, her eyes wild and shining with rage.

"I NEVER SAID ANYTHING LIKE THAT!" he screamed back at her. "DON'T ACT LIKE YOU KNOW EVERYTHING JUST BECAUSE YOU ASCENDED THE SOCIAL LADDER LIKE SOME SORT OF HERO! THE REST OF US HAD TO WORK JUST AS HARD TO GET WHERE WE ARE!"

"YOU'RE SO ARROGANT! HOW CAN YOU EVEN _SAY _THAT YOU HAD _ANY TROUBLE _DOING _ANYTHING? _YOU'RE SO FUCKING _SMART_ AND _RICH_ AND _TALENTED_, WHO THE HELL WOULD DENY YOU? YOU'VE ALWAYS HAD EVERYTHING YOU GODDAMN WANTED—"

"_You've always had everything." _That cut into Roderich's heart like a razor blade. He'd never, not at any point in his life, felt as if he had everything. In his childhood, that one thing he hadn't possessed was his parents' understanding. Then Vash left him, and that was another thing he didn't have. Living his life at an aristocratic distance was never as easy as it sounded – the problem with it was that he was always missing _something, _something he couldn't quite describe and had talked himself into deciding he didn't need.

Regardless of whatever it was, she had no right to say he'd always had everything, because he'd never had everything. No-one could ever have everything.

And he told her that.

"I'VE NEVER HAD EVERYTHING!" he yelled. "YOU ACT LIKE YOU JUST KNOW EVERYTHING ABOUT ME, BUT YOU _DON'T!"_

"DON'T I?" she screeched. "I SEEM TO KNOW YOU WELL ENOUGH, RODERICH, CONSIDERING I'M THE ONLY PERSON IN THE WORLD THAT IT SEEMS STILL CARES ABOUT YOU! WHAT DID YOU DO TO DRIVE ALL THOSE PEOPLE AWAY, HUH? ENLIGHTEN ME!"

He fell silent after that, his rage muffled by a swell of...hopelessness, almost, and a quieter, almost more frightening sort of anger that overtook him in a moment. For a long time, he did not speak, only staring at Elizaveta as she stood seething in the doorway into the kitchen, her hair wild, her eyes alight with green flames. "You're right," he said coldly. "I did drive all those people away. All of them. And it seems it's a habit I can't prevent from engaging in, since I'm apparently driving you away, as well."

She inhaled heavily in and out, having lost most of her breath in all the yelling. "Then maybe," she said, equally as coldly, her voice hoarse from yelling, "you should _stop _driving me away."

"I have done nothing but let you in—"

"NO, RODERICH. No, you HAVEN'T!" she was back to yelling again, though not as loudly as before – Roderich's sensitive ears appreciated that. "You've done nothing but keep me OUT! You won't abandon that...that...that STUPID PIANO in favor of ME! I'M A HUMAN BEING, RODERICH! I'M THE ONE THAT YOU SHOULD BE TALKING TO!"

"Why can't you simply let me have this ONE THING to myself, Elizaveta?" he snarled. "Maybe I don't WANT to share my feelings with you. Maybe that is one thing I would prefer to keep to myself! How is it you cannot respect that?"

"MAYBE BECAUSE I CAN'T STAND TO SEE YOU HURTING YOURSELF!" she screamed. "BECAUSE THAT'S WHAT YOU'RE DOING, RODERICH!"

"I'M NOT HURTING MYSELF!" he retorted. "YOU are the one that is hurting ME, YOU are the one who is keeping me from the ONE SOURCE OF SELF-EXPRESSION I STILL HAVE!"

"YOU'RE SUCH A FUCKING CONDESCENDING PRICK!" she shrieked at him. "YOU THINK IT MAKES YOU ALL DARK AND MYSTERIOUS AND COOL TO BE THE SILENT TYPE? IS THAT WHAT YOU THINK? WELL, IT DOESN'T MAKE YOU COOL, RODERICH! IT JUST MAKES YOU _FAKE!"_

"And YOU are a CONTROL FREAK!" he retorted. "I'm not attempting to be anything other than myself, Elizaveta!" He cut back an added _You're the one who's trying to change me, _finding that not even in the midst of his rage could he muster such an accusation. "And if you cannot accept me as myself, then perhaps..." He trailed off, taking a deep breath.

"Perhaps WHAT, Roderich?" she hissed, challenging him. "Perhaps WHAT? SAY IT!"

"Perhaps we should not be together," he said firmly, looking up at her with blue-violet eyes made of ice.

She was silent for a long time, glaring at him. Then, she ripped the necklace she was wearing, an anniversary gift from Roderich, off her neck, threw it to the ground, and stormed out of the apartment, slamming the door on the way out with a scream of, "THEN WE WON'T BE TOGETHER!"

For nearly five minutes, Roderich did not speak. He did not move. He just stared in shock at the door, wondering what had possibly gone wrong, how all of this was his fault, how stupid he had been to actually let her leave, why he had not gone after her the moment she slammed the door...

He finished picking the lock on the music room door and played the piano for nearly two hours. When his fingers were too sore to continue, he grabbed his jacket and left the apartment.

* * *

**(A/N: YAAAAAY IT'S TIME FOR DRAMAAAAA.**

**I promise the next chapter will be happier than this one. :'D And contain a lot of PruAus. The next chapter is, admittedly, where the relationship between the two of them really starts.**

**I kind of felt like I was making Lizzy out to be a villain at the end here, but don't think of her too badly. She and Roderich just don't really go together well, is all. It's not her fault she doesn't really understand him, you know? xD Anyway, don't focus your hatred on her.**

**And also, NO, THERE WILL NOT BE ANY GERAUS CONNOTATIONS IN THIS STORY. SERIOUSLY. |: So don't ask. Or hope. Sorry, GerAus fans.)**


	7. Chapter 7

**(A/N: It's finally here! Sorry, life's gotten in the way of things a lot recently, but, at last, I've gotten the time to finish writing this.**

**This chapter was just a little bit of a struggle for me because I wasn't exactly sure where I wanted it to go for a while, but this is where the real PruAus starts, so I hope you're all ready for it. |: Though there is a lot of slash in this chapter, there is also a lot of angst, so be ready for both. This is going to be a fairly angsty story.**

**This chapter is brought to you by the song "Can You Keep A Secret?" by The Cab. Enjoy!)**

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Roderich walked for a long time before it dawned on him that he was lost.

He supposed it was the distinctive change in lighting that finally alerted him he had wandered into the downtown sector – there were certainly no neon signs and bustling sidewalks in the uptown district where he lived. There were no drunken gaggles of college students stumbling out of glowing clubs pulsing with dance music in uptown, no yelling and loud whooping and off-key singing, no bright lights to blind him and thug-like men to give him odd, condescending looks for his neat, professional attire. He didn't belong here. This was not his scene. And yet, trapped in the dull, indefinite state of his shock, he staggered forwards anyway.

His mind was largely blank, his thoughts dim, the dust occasionally stirred by his last image of Elizaveta, shrieking and screaming and stomping – and when he recalled it, he felt a stabbing pain in his chest, as if someone had sunk a knife into his heart and twisted. Gone. Gone. Yet another relationship he had singlehandedly destroyed. Gone.

Roderich closed his eyes.

"_Vash, you know I didn't mean it—"_

"_DON'T EVEN PRETEND YOU DIDN'T MEAN IT!" Something breakable shattered against the wall next to Roderich's head, a flying fragment skimming past his cheek, slicing a thin line of red across his skin. One long-fingered hand shot up to his face, touching the warm, oozing cut as he stared wide-eyed at his attacker. Vash Zwingli was seething with rage, those burning, furious, emerald-colored eyes (eerily reminiscent, if a different shade, of Elizaveta's eyes, years later) smoldering with wrath._

"_Vash—" Roderich didn't know what to say. He didn't know how to make this right, he couldn't _fix _it, couldn't fix what he had said and what he had done._

"_DON'T EVEN—I DON'T WANT TO HEAR YOUR FUCKING EXCUSES, RODERICH! GET OUT! GET __OUT__!"_

"_P-please, I'm so sorry, I never meant to...i-it won't happen again—"_

"_DAMN RIGHT IT WON'T HAPPEN AGAIN! I NEVER WANT TO SPEAK TO YOU AGAIN! __GET__OUT__!"_

"_Brother...?" Vash's perpetual rage was interrupted by the voice of a nervous-looking little girl, peering around the door into the room. Her bottle-green eyes were wide with fright, as Roderich's were, but were more innocent, more confused._

_Vash looked over his shoulder, caught sight of the girl, and immediately froze in place, an anxiety and shame seeming to wash over him. "...Lili," he mumbled softly, setting down the heavy paperweight he had been prepared to throw. For a long moment, he burbled wordlessly, trying and failing to form a cohesive sentence to explain his behavior, then quickly said, "G-go to your room, go inside."_

"_...okay." Young Lili Zwingli looked back and forth for a moment between her adopted elder brother and the terrified and pleading Roderich, who had now sunken against the wall in defeat. She lingered there for a moment, then ran to her brother's side, skipping around the broken glass in her Mary-Janes before rising up on tiptoe to whisper something in the older blonde's ear. She spared a glance at Roderich, then darted from the room, closing the door softly behind her._

_Roderich didn't hear what she said, but whatever it was, it was enough to make Vash cast a slightly baleful, but much less feral, glance at Roderich._

"_Just get out."_

"_Vash, ple—"_

"_NOW."_

"_...fine." Grabbing a tissue on the way out to dab at his bleeding cheek, Roderich turned on his heel and swept out the door, fast enough and convincingly enough so that Vash could not see or predict the tears welling up in his deep bluish eyes._

Yes.

He'd destroyed it then, and he'd destroyed it now, because that was what he did—destroy things. That was all he was truly good at.

A strangled sound of sadness tore from his throat, and Roderich covered his mouth to stop it, trying to choke back the onslaught of tears and failing. Between the old aching scars of the tumultuous end of his relationship with Vash and the fresh, gaping wounds of his clash with Elizaveta, he was ready to just break, to curl up in the shadows of an alleyway and just shatter into little pieces of Roderich. He wanted to go somewhere where he didn't have to think about all the wrong he'd done and all the things he'd ruined. For once in his lifetime, Roderich just wanted to not think ever again.

Perhaps that self-destructive urge of his was what drove him into the night club.

Roderich had only been in a night club once before, and that had been during his junior year in college, when Elizaveta's ex-boyfriend Sadiq had terrorized him into going with subtle insults to his masculinity. He hadn't had any fun; instead, he recalled sitting quietly in one corner of the room until Elizaveta had coaxed him into dancing with her. He'd had a somewhat pleasant time after that, but only because he'd had an absurdly large crush on her at the time. (Now, he wasn't even sure he had that anymore.)

But this time, there was no Elizaveta to drag him from his seat. This time, instead of an awkward 20-year-old college student perched quietly in a chair in the corner, he was an awkward and broken 27-year-old lawyer perched quietly in a corner with a glass of scotch.

That was all he needed. That was all he wanted, to just be alone, just him and the alcohol and the loud music that flushed out all other thoughts and feelings, and it was so serene, in a clamorous sort of way—

And that thought was cut off by the grating voice and slightly disheveled appearance of the person he wished to see the least in the world that very moment.

"Roderich Edelstein." That sinister grin almost made him shiver. "I didn't expect to see my favorite little Papillion out to play without his…" Gilbert Beilschmidt looked him up and down in an almost hungry way that made Roderich want to disappear into his chair. "…collar."

The bespectacled man looked away, ashamed of his own mere presence at the club. "Please go away."

"Awww, what's wrong, Miss Priss? You come all the way out to this hoppin' little night club and you're not even going to have any fun?" The albino put his hands on his hips and grinned. He was clad in a collared button-down shirt nearly halfway open, as well as dark, tight jeans. A pair of red sunglasses were pushed up into his silvery hair, and both the lenses and the strands reflected the ever-changing colors of the lights.

"I asked you nicely," Roderich muttered bitterly, almost unheard over the pumping bass. "Please just leave me alone."

"Fffff!" Beilschmidt made a sound of utter disdain. "And leave you to sit here and soak in your own self-pity? Hell naw! I'm too awesome to allow this. I won't stand for it!" In a motion almost graceful, he offered his hand to Roderich.

The brunette shrank away from him. "…I couldn't."

"What, afraid to have a little fun? Kesesesese, you _are _a tight-ass, Papillion." There was that derisive laughter again that had become so very familiar. It took every inch of Roderich's self-control not to scowl.

"Do not call me Papillion," he snapped, turning his face away from Beilschmidt.

A sudden hand on his chin forced his head back towards the ruby-eyed man, and the contact made his face flush and his eyes shoot wide open; it also made him inherently uncomfortable.

"Hey. Listen up, you stupid aristocrat." Beilschmidt was no longer smiling – his gaze was judgmental and his mouth was almost serious. "I hate seeing anyone moping like a sack of 'woe is me,' but it _really _doesn't suit you. I know you give a shit that you're supposed to be prosecuting me and whatever and shouldn't talk to me or something, but I don't. Now, I know you want to fucking dance with me, so cut the crap and get out of your goddamn chair." He offered his hand again, a trace of that grin coming back to his lips in the form of a somewhat smirk-like smile.

Roderich sighed. He looked back and forth between his scotch glass and that extended hand for a moment longer – alcohol, Beilschmidt, alcohol, Beilschmidt. Neither were responsible choices; in fact, he reflected, if he had any shred of dignity left, he should have left as soon as he walked in the door. But now, it seemed he had little chance of doing that. And so, with a surge of something unfamiliar, he set down his scotch and laid his hand delicately into Beilschmidt's.

He had never touched Gilbert in this fashion before – most of their contact over the past week had been violent with undertones of threat – but he did not find it displeasing in sensation. Though his own hands were somewhat small and soft, with the long fingers of a pianist and neatly trimmed nails, Beilschmidt's were pleasantly calloused, larger than his so that his own hand fit neatly into the albino's, but not so large that it enveloped his awkwardly. In fact, he reflected (trying to remain objective), their hands fit together very nicely. The gentle texture of the other's cool palms was pleasing.

Beilschmidt tugged Roderich from his chair, grinning and letting free a victorious "Thaaa!" before he drew him to the dance floor. Roderich looked about with anxiety; what if someone recognized him here, the great and glorious District Attorney dancing with an accused murderer in some obscure nightclub? It would be terrible for his image. He would be up for reelection before too long, and the last thing he needed was a scandal…

"Chill out, pretty boy," Gilbert muttered in his ear, making Roderich tense up at how close he was once again. "Nobody here gives a damn who you are. I mean, I'm too awesome _not _to notice, but nobody's gonna think anything of a stiff like you – plenty of suits come out here to let loose on the weekends." He could practically feel that smirk against his ear and forced down a tremor of panic at the proximity.

_You are fine. You are fine. Nothing atrocious has happened yet – you are still in control._

And that was all he had ever wanted. Control. It was what he lived for. And since his life had always been so beyond his control – his overbearing parents who had forced his hand from his life to his career, his confusing feelings for Vash once upon a time, his authoritative girlfriend who kept him from what he loved in his "best interest," his boss at City Hall who gave him no choice but to follow commands when given them – Roderich had turned to the only thing that was not beyond his control. Himself.

If he lost control of himself, he lost everything.

"Dance with me," Gilbert hissed in his ear, guiding the rigid brunette into his arms. "You know how to dance, don'tcha, Specs?"

"Of course I know how to dance," Roderich responded. "I'm simply…unfamiliar with more modern styles…"

Beilschmidt snorted with laughter.

"What?" he snapped.

"Nothing, it's just exactly what I expected you to say." The silver-haired man's grin was impish now, his eyes alight with a fire all his own. Roderich had come to really enjoy…nevermind.

He tried not to glare.

"Aw, come on. Just dance, huh?" Gilbert began to guide Roderich's steps in a pattern, drawing him about and occasionally releasing him in some unfamiliar style that Roderich had never encountered before. He supposed it was some sort of modern, metropolitan dance; he didn't care to know.

At one point in the music, Gilbert wound him in close until their noses nearly brushed each other and held him there for some time as they stepped back and forth to the rhythm. "You're a fast learner," he commented.

"Thank you," Roderich muttered, uncomfortable with the closeness.

"And take that as a huge compliment, because I rarely give 'em to anyone but my awesome self."

"I figured."

Beilschmidt grinned at him, leaning in so his lips were dangerously close to Roderich's ear. "You know, for all the shit you're dealing me, Mr. District Attorney…you're not bad."

"Wha—" Roderich sputtered slightly, releasing Gilbert for a moment to push up his glasses. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Nah, nevermind," Beilschmidt responded, his pace slowing as the music did. He pulled Roderich in close to him, sliding his arms more insistently around the slimmer man's waist with a devious chuckle, eliminating Roderich's opportunity to move away from him. "Slow it up, pretty boy."

"I-I'm not sure if I'm comfortable with this scenario," Roderich muttered, making a vain attempt to pull away. Beilschmidt's strong hands prohibited him as his captor smirked.

"Don't be difficult." Roderich felt his cheek make contact with Gilbert's as the slow song took full effect on the both of them. "You're prosecuting me for murder, not rape. Why so serious?"

"You realize I have a girlfriend," Roderich muttered.

"I realize you two had a pretty bad fight this evening," Gilbert responded shrewdly.

The District Attorney tensed. "…how did you know that?"

"Roddy, I'm not an idiot, and you're not exactly a free spirit. There's no way in hell you'd be in a place like this slugging scotches and dancing with your defendant unless you had a damn good reason to ditch your girlfriend for a nightclub."

"You practically forced me to dance with you," Roderich retorted defensively.

"Yeah, but you coulda said no." They were so unbearably _close, _cheek to cheek, bodies brushing with each gently rocking step, arms around each other. "Don't deny it. You're having a good time. Who wouldn't, dancing with me?" Gilbert's grin was egotistical.

"I could name a few," the DA muttered, a note of venom in his voice.

Beilschmidt whistled. "Now, now, Papillion, don't make me get the squirt bottle."

"I resent that nickname, you realize that."

"Yeah, but now I'm kind of partial to it, so I'm not gonna stop using it." He snickered.

Roderich felt his face flush. "Moron."

"Priss," the albino retorted playfully.

"Blockhead."

"Four-eyes."

"How mature."

"How pretentious."

"You sicken me."

"You don't seem particularly sickened." Gilbert leaned in to brush his lips against Roderich's ear, a hand sliding craftily into the other's back pocket. "You are pretty hot, you know. Has anyone told you that recently? I mean, not as hot as me, but still. Fuckable."

"...fuck you." With a surge of anger and anxiety and...something else, Roderich shoved the albino away from him, a sound of indignation escaping him. He dove into the crowd of drunk partygoers on the dance floor, feeling outrage and embarrassment well in his stomach. _That ignorant imbecile, I can't stand him, he can't be serious for just one moment even when we were—_

"Roddy! Hey, don't be like that!" He heard Gilbert's voice behind him, but it was disappearing behind him into the crowd and the music permeating the air. Roderich covered his ears, feeling his eyes well up with tears and consciously holding them back as he pushed out the back doors of the club and into the dark, empty parking lot behind the building.

It was almost quiet there. The only sounds came not from the parking lot itself, but from the background; the pulsating sound of the club behind the doors he had just exited, the faint roar of cars on the street, the occasional noise made by a group of chattering pedestrians strolling down a sidewalk some ways away. There was a peace in that almost-quiet, a serenity, like this was the only patch of calm in a sea of turbulent noise. Roderich took a deep breath of the stale night air, trying to clear his thoughts, and sat down on the asphalt, leaning against the brick back wall of the building.

Fuck Beilschmidt and his vulgar language and his stupid nicknames and his deplorable personality and his...fucking beautiful eyes. Fuck him. It wasn't worth it. It _wasn't worth it. _He had been out risking his career this evening with some moronic excuse for a human being like Beilschmidt when he could have been doing something useful like _working on his cases, _or better yet, pursuing his girlfriend like he should have done two hours ago.

_Pursue Elizaveta... _He turned the thought over silently in his head, and with a sting of shame, he realized that he didn't really want her back.

* * *

"FUCK!"

With a swing of his foot and a grunt of anger, Gilbert Beilschmidt sent an empty beer can skittering across the sidewalk, crimson eyes ablaze with frustration.

"Well, who needs 'im, that damn stupid aristocrat...G-God, Gilbert, you're such a _fucking _idiot for even _thinking..."_

Thinking...what? That he ever had a chance with Roderich Edelstein? That he could ever be anything in his eyes besides a piece of scum, a criminal, an idiot? Well, fuck him, Gilbert was too awesome to need anyone, anyway! He would do just fine on his own. He always had before. It was why he never got serious in a relationship, never cared to. Because he didn't need anyone. He was tired of rejection.

The albino was very intent on stomping the life out of that beer can he'd kicked when he felt his phone vibrating insistently in his pocket. Only one person in his contacts had the German national anthem as their ringtone – his brother.

He whipped the phone out of his pocket. "What?"

"...Gilbert, is something wrong?"

"No, West, everything is _great." _Somehow, he knew that getting mad at his younger brother was not the way to solve his problems, but he was too pissed off at himse—that Priss to do anything else.

The man on the other end was silent.

"...West?" Gilbert ran a hand through his hair and sighed heavily. "Listen...I'm sorry." 'West' was such an old nickname now, from back in the days when he and his brother had lived with different parents – he along the East Coast, his brother along the West. Though Ludwig had somewhat grown out of Gilbert's familiar alias of 'East,' the elder of the two brothers refused to drop the nickname out of stubbornness.

"What happened?" Ludwig's low voice was almost stern.

"Nothing...fuck, _nothing _happened, I guess that's the problem." Gilbert made a sound of frustration and kicked a piece of gravel into the street.

"...what does that mean?"

"Never fucking mind. It doesn't matter." He struck out at a dumpster with his foot as he passed it. "Fuck!"

"Gilbert..." There was a warning tone in Ludwig's voice.

"Don't 'Gilbert' me, West! I'm not a baby, okay?" he snapped. "And if I'm so much fucking trouble, maybe I should just go to jail! Let that motherfucking asswipe District Attorney throw me in the slammer JUST LIKE HE WANTS TO!"

"Gilbert, don't talk like that."

"Listen, I can't talk to you right now, okay? I'm fucking...I can't talk. I'll see you at the apartment, West." And with that, Gilbert Beilschmidt slammed his phone closed and shoved it back into his pocket.

He knew he shouldn't have reacted that way, not to his brother, practically the only person in the universe who still gave a damn about him. How could he throw that away so easily?

But he was too pissed off to call back. Right now, what he needed was to go get wasted.

He'd found that, after all these years, it took the edge off of rejection.

* * *

Roderich had not been expecting to see Gilbert Beilschmidt again that night. _In fact, _he attempted to convince himself, _I would be perfectly content if I never saw that lousy excuse for a human being ever again._

But he wasn't sure if he believed that.

...what was that supposed, to mean, _wasn't sure? _Of course he was fucking sure. He was more sure than he had ever been about anything in his life. _De-definitely. Absolutely. Sure._

But it was so, so hard to seek that assurance with that memory still in his mind, the slow music in his ears, Beilschmidt's arms around his waist, his warm face so close to Roderich's ear...it just...

_It didn't mean anything. It was a mistake. He was probably drunk. You were...confused, yes, confused because of what happened this evening and just seeking...a most bizarre form of comfort...but it didn't mean anything. Any of your reactions were absolutely only a result of your solace-seeking, nothing else. _He could almost believe himself.

Almost.

As if by instinct, he felt his hand linger by the pocket that Beilschmidt had momentarily slipped his hand into, his fingers placing themselves where his fingers had been. A little sigh escaped him, despite himself, and—what was that? He reached a little deeper, fingers brushing against a thin edge of...something.

A slip of paper...?

Roderich drew the folded note from his pocket, one eyebrow arching elegantly as he unfolded it, stepping into the light of a nearby flickering streetlamp in order to read the rough-looking scrawl.

"_555-555-1701"_

"...that bastard." Suppressing the threat of a smile, Roderich shoved the small piece of paper back into his pocket with a slightly forced sound of disdain. A phone number. How petty a trick. Of course he wouldn't call; there was no need to. Nothing had happened between the two of them, nothing had transpired that would suggest that he would need to call Beilschmidt for any reason other than to summon him to court in two and a half months. It was ridiculous, to even think he...

...would want to call him...

...for any reason...

...definitely not.

And that was about the same time he turned the corner and heard the sound of Gilbert Beilschmidt's raised voice.

"...throw me in the slammer JUST LIKE HE WANTS TO!"

Roderich winced.

"Listen, I can't talk to you right now, okay? I'm fucking...I can't talk. I'll see you at the apartment, West."

West...who the hell was West?

_Don't follow him. He was probably just...insulting you senselessly to whomever was on the other end. He must hate you. Just leave him alone, don't follow him, you don't need to follow him, he's the one that does the pursuing and YOU AREN'T LIKE THAT..._

_Don't follow him. Don't follow him._

_I'm not following him. I'm simply walking in the same direction he is walking, as it is the way back to my house. Which is where I am going._

"Fuck," he heard from up ahead, and though he could not see Beilschmidt as he walked down the sidewalk towards the corner the other had just turned at, he could hear the frustration in that single word, the anger, the...sorrow?

What was the strangled emotion that made that rough voice crack?

He peered around the corner just as a silvery-haired figure disappeared through the doors of a bar, and Roderich felt a swell of...what was it, concern, perhaps? Of course not, he didn't care about this man, he was just...a little curious, and eager to observe him for...evidence for his case, of course. No matter that he was following his defendant into a bar; Roderich was a responsible adult, he could hold his own against an alcoholic beverage. His self-control was impeccable.

Holden's Bar was neither uncomfortably full nor entirely forsaken; the air was stale and smelled like wood and beer, the floor was freshly swept, and a tall man with spiky, light brown hair and a scar on his forehead was drying glasses with a rag, impassively observing the customers sitting on their barstools or slouched over the counter. One of those false fires, the kind with the metal logs and the imaginary flames, was flickering, heatless, in the hearth, and there were pennants strung up across the walls in a range of colors, bright and dark. An old, blocky television set, raised off the ground and situated in a corner, was showing a rerun of some college football game that had happened earlier that day, its aging speakers adding a note of static to the deep male voices of the announcers.

It wasn't exactly the kind of roaring insane asylum Roderich had expected it to be, and that, if nothing else, reassured him – though it did not slow his heart, which was hammering away madly in his chest like its life depended on it.

His eyes were trained not on the TV, not on the bartender, not even on the tacky fake fireplace; rather, they fell almost instantaneously upon that familiar mop of whitish hair, looking slightly blonder in the dim, orange-yellow lights. Beilschmidt was mumbling his order to the bartender, his shoulders hunched, his voice tense and low.

Roderich took a deep breath, crossed the floor, and took a seat on the vacant barstool several seats away from him. He did not greet the other, did not even attempt to make Beilschmidt aware of his existence, but just watched him, the way those red eyes glinted in the light, the curve of his back, the paleness of his skin. He was...beautiful. _Just admit it, he's attractive, it doesn't mean anything. Simply because you find him attractive..._

He cleared his throat. "Excuse me. Bartender?"

The man in the apron swept over to him, setting the glass he had been drying on a shelf. His dull eyes scanned Roderich critically, the well-tailored suit, the cravat, the collar of his crisp white button-down shirt; clearly, someone as neatly groomed as he was an unusual sight to see in such a place. The bartender's eyes drifted to his face, and his brow furrowed slightly in recognition.

"Hey, you're the District Attorney," he said in a gravelly voice. "What's a high-end guy like you doing here?"

"Just passing through." Roderich mustered a small, polite smile.

"Well, 's an honor t'see you here, sir—"

"No need for the formalities, I know you're very busy," the DA responded in a gracious tone. "May I have a Johnny Walker Red, on the rocks, please?"

The bartender nodded curtly to him, moving out of Roderich's line of sight – which was presently very narrow, as it was fixed solely on Beilschmidt, who happened to be staring right at him as if he were a three-headed Hydra.

Neither of them spoke for a long moment, just watched each other as if sizing up an opponent in a fight; Roderich's purplish eyes were expressionless, almost too polite, while Beilschmidt's were wide, almost incredulous, and slightly hurt. That sliver of offense in his ruby gaze almost made Roderich wince. It was somehow painful, seeing a man like Beilschmidt look so...vulnerable. Yes, almost vulnerable.

The two seats between them were empty, but Gilbert made no move to come any closer to Roderich, instead breaking off the staring contest by averting his eyes back to the contents of his mug.

"What do you want?" he muttered after a moment; the next time he looked at Roderich, his eyes were resentful.

The brunette blinked. "What do you mean?"

"Ksh!" Gilbert made a sound of scorn. "Don't pretend like you just _happened _to come in here. You followed me. Now what the fuck do you want?"

Roderich was silent for a very long time, simply because Beilschmidt had a valid point. What _did _he want? Why had he insisted on following this...this...overconfident, bigheaded, rude man into some old bar like this? What was he trying to accomplish?

He didn't know. So that was exactly what he said.

"I don't know."

The accused criminal's eyes briefly took on a look of shock, then derision. "Thought you knew everything. You certainly act like you do."

It was Roderich's turn to feel a stab of hurt. "Unfortunately, I do not know everything."

"Huh."

There was another long, awkward period of quiet between the two of them, giving Roderich time to notice the bartender had set his scotch in front of him on the counter. He took a sip of it and swallowed, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment and exhaling softly. Though he'd never been much of a drinker, in situations like this, alcohol was sometimes the thing he found most appropriate.

"I won't apologize for what I said," Beilschmidt said gruffly. Roderich looked over at him, his expression still carefully composed.

"What would that be?"

"That you're fuckable."

The brunette looked away to avoid Gilbert seeing the flush that rose to his cheeks. "You still hold that opinion after my last response?" There was only the faintest intonation of a question in his voice.

"Yeah."

"I see."

Another uncomfortable pause.

"...look, Pri—Roderich." Again, the sound of Gilbert's voice attracted Roderich's attention. "I...know that you don't...fuck, I know I'm not your style, and that you're all wrapped up in this case against me and...you probably think I'm the scum of the earth..."

Roderich watched him attentively, as if prompting him to continue.

"And don't think you're my style, either, 'cause you're not. I don't go for prisses like you, trust me. I..." He trailed off again and took a swig of what Roderich assumed was beer, then slammed the mug down on the counter like he was frustrated, earning a halfhearted glare from the bartender. "...you're really fucking with me, Edelstein, you know that?" A dry laugh escaped him, and he took another drink. Roderich sipped his scotch courteously in the meantime, his mind working furiously, trying to understand what Beilschmidt was trying to say. It sounded like...a confession, but of what nature? Of course the insane albino couldn't possibly be _attracted _to him, not really – perhaps just enough for a one night stand, which was something Roderich did not engage in as a rule. Or maybe he was just pulling Roderich's strings, trying to mess him up so he couldn't prosecute.

But was he crafty enough for that? He didn't...really seem like the type who planned these things, but he did have that military background with tactics and strategy...no, no, Roderich couldn't let his guard down and just accept all this at face value.

"What do you mean?" he asked, when Beilschmidt failed to continue.

The other looked away. "You...fucking..._Gott verdammt, _it's not like I can just..." He made a frustrated noise. "Like this kind of fucking with me." In what seemed like an instant, Beilschmidt was on his feet, passing both the barstools between them, grabbing Roderich by the front of his shirt, and forcing their lips together.

Roderich felt his heart stop for just a moment, the contact sending little shocks of electricity through his skin and into his bones, shaking him to the core. Something in him wanted to kiss back, to pull Gilbert closer, but he couldn't, he couldn't, there were too many people and—

"Hey. If you boys are going to do that, take it outside," ground out the bartender. Gilbert broke the kiss and shot the man a glare, then looked down at Roderich expectantly; his eyes glistened faintly with hope. The DA stared back at him in utter shock.

It wasn't the first time he'd been kissed by someone of the same sex, but it was the first time in a while.

"Here." Beilschmidt slammed a few bills down on the table as Roderich drew his wallet from his pocket and fumbled with the cash, managing to lay out enough for the scotch. The bartender grunted, grabbing the money and watching the two skeptically as he cleared away the glasses.

Gilbert was studying Roderich's face silently, watching as his eyes flitted back and forth, touched slightly with fear, as if trying to find an escape route. It was...endearing, he decided, a slight smirk coming to his lips, and he tapped the man on the shoulder. Those indigo eyes refocused on him.

"So?"

"I..." The prosecutor looked stunned. "...havetogo..." He was up in a split second, not running, but walking far too quickly to the door, throwing himself out into the open air and taking deep, heavy breaths of it, trying to clear his head.

_What the hell just happened? What did I do?_ He covered his mouth with his hand, the tingling feeling of Beilschmidt's lips against his, the sensation of it still there, like a phantom pain. Only it wasn't painful, it was...just...electric, and...

_Wonderful._

Throwing dignity to the wayside, Roderich ran all the way home.

* * *

**(A/N: And so we come to the end of Chapter 7. A lot of drama went down in this chapter, hm? And look there, the first REAL PruAus kiss of the entire story!**

**Not sure when the next chapter will be out, but keep an eye open for it. Reviews are awesome!)**


	8. Chapter 8

**(A/N: MY SINCERE APOLOGIES THAT THIS TOOK SO LONG. Again, schoolwork has been getting in the way, I've been very distracted, and I had writer's block on this for quite a while despite knowing almost exactly what was going to happen. Go figure.**

**Anyway, a lot of stuff happens in this chapter, so I hope you guys enjoy it. Maybe it was worth the wait?)**

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* * *

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_What were you thinking you idiot why would you let him do that sweet Tchaikovsky it felt so...good..._

NO. No, no, no, no. Roderich shook his head in frustration. He couldn't be thinking like that. That wasn't appropriate, he couldn't...he wouldn't...do something like that, not so soon after Elizaveta left him. He wasn't even sure if they had broken up or...or maybe if she was coming back...

_Don't fool yourself. She's not coming back._

But he had to be optimistic, she might change her mind...

_She won't. Don't be an idiot._

But...but how was that any better? Gilbert was considerably more dangerous than Elizaveta, and...and he...he was Roderich's defendant. This had to be illegal on some level!

_Didn't you go to law school? Shouldn't you know that? _berated the cynic in the back of his mind. _You're such a moron. Why did you let her leave? Why did you let him do that?_

"It was not as if I _knew _what he was going to do," Roderich snapped, before he realized he was talking to himself and shut his mouth.

He tried to force himself to think about work. Vash...he needed Vash Zwingli's testimony. Yes, he had to think about that, that and the trial for the Kitchen Knife Murders starting next week...he had interviews to arrange. Not to mention his appointment with Arthur Kirkland...y-yes, those were the things he needed to be thinking about, focusing on. Not...Gilbert Beilschmidt.

He slammed the door to his apartment on the way in and threw himself onto the couch, groaning into one of the cushions in irritation. It wasn't fair. All of it...it wasn't...

"Rough night, eh, Roddy?"

Roderich shot bolt upright.

There, lingering in the doorway, his head against the frame and his hand on the knob, stood Gilbert Beilschmidt himself, his red eyes holding a note of sympathy, the usual smug grin toned down to a knowing smile. It was the most human Roderich had ever seen him...and something about that was innately...attractive, that vulnerability, that humanness.

It did not change the fact that he had not invited Gilbert to come home with him. Roderich scrambled backwards, hitting the arm of the couch.

"Wh-wha-what are you doing here?"

"Okay, so I followed you home. And the door was unlocked. I knocked, but you didn't answer, so I just...uh..." He paused, looking down at his feet. "I haven't...technically stepped inside yet, if it's any consolation."

_Oh God oh God he knows where I live this is bad._

"I noticed," the DA responded in a tone that was supposed to be curt. It came off as just...flat.

Gilbert paused, glancing at Rod and then kicking at the ground. "So, uh..."

"...so." The brunette was silent, trying to fix his gaze elsewhere, but failing to shift it a fraction from the albino in the doorway.

"Um...about...the bar...God, fuckitall, I just...ah..." The accused murderer ran a pale hand through his hair, exhaling in frustration. "I...fuck. Fuckfuck. I should just leave."

"No, you...ah."

The sound of the attorney's nervous little voice seemed to freeze the other man in place, his crimson eyes flitting back to the brunette on the couch. "I...?" he prompted, hanging off his every stammered and broken word.

"I'm not...angry..." Roderich managed after a moment, turning to sit on the couch normally, instead of leaning over one of the arms as he'd been doing.

Gilbert looked momentarily shocked. "...you're not?" he asked, his eyebrows descending just a fraction in confusion.

"No." The gentleman pursed his lips and was silent.

Gilbert found the quiet unnerving, so he was the first to break it. "Then...what did you...think about it?" His heart was pounding frantically in his chest, like a frightened animal. And he was frightened. Every word, motion, subtle change in expression left Gilbert suspended in space. How the District Attorney had come to be so attractive to him...so...magnetic, in such a short period of time...it unnerved him. Just a few weeks, and...

Roderich was silent again for a long moment, and with a stab of fear, Gilbert wondered if his heart was hammering loud enough for the other man to hear.

"Well?" he prompted, highly uncomfortable with Roderich's loss for words. Gilbert was not the type to be nervous, but Roderich was so...refined, and so skittish at times. He felt like he was dealing with a flighty, highly intelligent animal, one that could read all his movements and seemed edgy enough to flee with only the slightest shift of position. It wasn't like it was habit for him to be even the slightest bit considerate.

"I..." the attorney began, but trailed off, his own thoughts racing. "I thought it was...pleasant." _You idiot, what sort of description is that? It was goddamn electrifying, why don't you just tell him? Moron! Pathetic!_

_No, no, I can't tell him, he can't know that, I...he can't._

"Pleasant..." Roderich wasn't sure if he was imagining the note of disappointment in Beilschmidt's voice. "Oh."

"...would you like to come in?" Roderich asked after a moment, getting to his feet and stepping into the faded half-circle of light filtering in from the hallway through the open door, split awkwardly by Gilbert's silhouette.

The albino looked up at him, his eyes widening a fraction. "Um...s-sure, yeah," he managed, seeming a little disbelieving. He took a step over the threshold, watching Roderich cautiously, as if the man were a mousetrap ready to spring. Gilbert wasn't sure how else to think of Roderich. One moment, he was this great fortress of aristocratic distance who insulted him ruthlessly and played by the rules, and the next, he was this awkward but courteous young attorney, inviting him inside. Way to send mixed signals.

But at the same time, there was something undeniably striking about Roderich Edelstein, this Gilbert was absolutely certain of. The soft sheen of his hair...Gott, he knew that hair was soft, he just knew it...and his lips, too...the graceful curve of his neck, and...

_God, the things I wouldn't do to him._

Not to mention, Gilbert reflected as he kept his eyes on Roderich, the ferocity of his personality. Such an intricate riddle...like a solid-colored jigsaw puzzle. You could hardly ever tell what he was _really _thinking, what was _really _going on behind those lovely purplish-blue eyes of his.

Gilbert had never met someone exactly like him.

He thought he had known who Roderich was, but he didn't.

_And he doesn't know me, either._

With a more familiar smirk, the albino shoved his hands in his pocket. "So what now, Priss?"

"Ah..." He had never seen uncertainty in Roderich's face until that night. It had been in his face at the club, and it was in his face now, shining and obvious. He wanted to settle that uncertainty. Gilbert wouldn't deny that provoking the brunette was the most fun he got out of life recently, but to see doubt in him was a little...scary. It made him seem...not-himself.

"Would you like something to drink?" he asked. "There is...beer in the fridge...and scotch..."

"Er..." Gilbert looked at him dumbly.

"I figure it's much safer if you consume alcohol here than to do so in some cheap tavern far from home," the young gentleman said, glancing away to conceal...something...in his eyes. He was so hard to read – was he trying to be caring? Gilbert couldn't tell. He could hardly ever tell, and perhaps why that was why he'd been so keen on provoking him, just so he would express enough emotion for Gilbert to understand him.

"Oh...uh...yeah, that'd be great." As if he could ever turn down a beer. Even though his head was already swimming just a little bit from the two and a half beers he'd had already that night, Gilbert took pride in his high tolerance for alcohol; he could almost always "have another." Ludwig had once tried to give him some information about Alcoholics Anonymous or some shit like that, but he'd ignored him and laughed it off. Little brothers didn't know anything. Of course he wasn't an alcoholic. He just liked to drink, that was all, that wasn't wrong...

Shaking those thoughts from his head, he followed Roderich into the kitchen, unable to help himself from staring at the other man's ass.

"So, uh," Gilbert spoke up, trying to make conversation as he sat down at the kitchen table, watching Roderich mess around in the fridge. "That girlfriend of yours...she's not gonna decide to walk back in here while you're drinking with your defendant, huh? Kesesesese." He tried to maintain a note of derision in his voice, a humor in his laugh and his words, but it wasn't as strong as it normally would have been.

Roderich froze up. Immediately, Gilbert knew he had said something wrong.

The attorney swallowed deeply. "...I don't think that will be an issue," he responded calmly, and poured himself a scotch.

Gilbert backed off the subject, reflecting that Specs was more interesting than he had ever been.

It took a glass of scotch and a few beers before they kissed again.

Roderich was watching him, his eyes glazed over a little bit with the effects of the alcohol working their magic, and Gilbert was drunk, drunk, drunk, and it felt good, and Roderich's lips looked so tasty, and he couldn't stop himself. They hadn't had much in the way of conversation, as they had both sat there getting progressively more and more drunk, but now any hopes for real dialogue had gone out the window. The bespectacled man hadn't resisted, and his mouth tasted like scotch; the two flavors intermingled in Gil's mouth, and he loved it.

He loved the way his Papillion tasted.

His his his.

* * *

Normally, Roderich wasn't the type to be careless enough to get himself drunk and then let a potential murderer kiss him for the second time in one night. However, this was not a normal instance, Roderich reflected as Gilbert leaned in towards him, the smell of beer on his breath, eyes glazed. Their lips met heatedly, expectantly, the kiss deep and hot and delicious. He felt Gilbert pulling him into his lap and did not resist, straddling the albino's legs with his own, his mind too foggy to make clearer decisions. And maybe...this was what he wanted. Maybe he needed this, this attention, especially from a man, especially from Gilbert.

Maybe he still wasn't quite as heterosexual as he liked people to believe he was.

A hand was running down his thigh. All the experiences were so unfamiliar to him; when was the last time he and Elizaveta had engaged in something like this? She didn't even matter right now – the image of her face was chased completely from his mind, and there was only Gilbert, Gilbert, Gilbert, everywhere. A sharp, spicy scent overrode his senses – Gilbert's smell, he presumed, though he had never been close enough to detect it – and his eyes were nearly closed, his arms looped messily around the other man's neck.

"Bedroom," Gilbert was moaning, undoing the button on Roderich's pants. "Where?"

"Ahhh..." The brunette was breathing raggedly as he felt a hand sneak into his underwear. "Downthehall...seconddoor...left..." He could only speak in fractured sentences, the words crammed and slurred together awkwardly. Gilbert wrapped Roderich's narrow legs around his waist as he stood and carried him all the way there, supporting Roderich's somewhat small and slender frame with only a small amount of difficulty (it was clear, Roderich thought hazily, that Gilbert stayed in shape).

There was no sly comment made about the purple bedsheets. There was no time. It felt, to both of them, as if every second of this interaction, every touch and kiss and sound, was at the same time needy and hurried, vital and rushed. No time for niceties. No consciousness for it.

Gilbert threw him lightly onto the bed and crawled over him as he lay there splayed out for just a moment, his hair a mess, glasses askew, nice violet jacket open, pants undone. The albino loomed above him like a predator, and Roderich tucked a hand behind his neck, pulling him down into a kiss. A whine escaped him as their hips collided.

Quick work was made of their shirts; first Roderich's jacket, off to the side, then the shoes and socks, kicked off carelessly. Roderich felt his shirt torn open and was too drunk and consumed to protest, though normally he would have cried out about the needless damaging of clothes that cost _money. _A slightly rough hand made its way down his chest, briefly caressing his nipple, sliding across the pale, heaving surface of his stomach.

The shirts and pants and underwear were made quick work of, and then it was just flesh against flesh and moans and moans and moans, and oh God, he had never, ever experienced something like this. Yes, the lubricant was in the bottom drawer under the old Music Theory book. Yes, it was his first time with a man. No, he didn't know how this worked.

It was painful at first. He hadn't expected that, but the alcohol took off the edge, and soon enough, that pain exploded into divinity, and he was writhing and screaming and there was no time, no time, and there was nothing else but Gilbert and that spicy smell in his nose. Gilbert, Gilbert, Gilbert, Gilbert, Gilbert.

"That's right, Roddy, just like that, oh God," the other moaned in his ear, catching his lips in a brutal kiss. The bed was creaking like there were monsters jumping on it. Roderich's eyes were wide, but he could hardly see anything save for that looming face above him, red and panting, white hair plastered to the back of a pallid neck, crimson eyes on fire. God, those eyes. They alone were enough.

"Beautiful," Gilbert was whimpering. His face was in Roderich's neck, nuzzling at the bitemarks he had already left. Roderich was surprised he had the breath to say anything; he only had enough space left in his lungs for more primal noises.

The pleasure reached a crescendo, and everything flew into ecstasy, and he didn't even care if he was screaming or if the neighbors could hear, because it was amazing and this was amazing and Gilbert was fucking beautiful and nothing else even mattered. His job didn't matter. Elizaveta didn't matter. Murder trials didn't matter. Even he didn't matter.

They slunk under the covers and curled up together, sticky with sweat and other things. And then they fell asleep.

Roderich had never slept more deeply in his entire life.

* * *

Gilbert awoke the next morning with a pounding headache, naked as the day he was born.

Now, normally, this would not be an extraordinary thing to Gilbert. It wasn't strange for him to wake up naked (he slept in the nude, after all), or with a hangover, or in an unfamiliar bed. The difference was the importance of the bed he was waking up in.

"Mmmmrrrr," he growled, rolling over and feeling for the presence that had been beside him the night before, that soft and delicate warmth...

His eyes shot open as his arms felt nothing.

Roderich was gone.

"...hn?"

He sat up straight, peeling back the sheets. Indeed, there was the indentation of a body on the other side of the bed, but the body itself was gone, the covers already neatly and compulsively returned to their original order.

A feeling of stupidity washed over him, but he pushed it aside, sliding out of bed and thanking whoever had furnished the apartment for the carpeted floor. His least favorite thing in the morning was sliding out of a warm bed just to put his feet on cold wood. He didn't bother putting on any clothes, just ruffled his hair a little bit and yawned. The bedroom door was already open, so he skulked sleepily into the kitchen, wincing at the light streaming through the windows. He had a killer headache.

"Roddy?" he called, though he didn't expect a response. Of course Roderich wasn't here. Had he seriously been deluded enough to think that snippy attorney would be warm enough to wait for him to wake up? No. Of course he hadn't. So why did he feel disappointed?

Shaking it off, he glanced about the kitchen. The empty glasses and bottles of last night had been washed and placed in a drying rack in one side of the sink, and the chairs had been pushed back into their places at the table. There was faint evidence that someone had made breakfast; there was a pan in the drying rack, as well, and the inside of the sink was still wet.

Gilbert's eyes, however, were attracted to a Post-it note on the counter, next to a plate of tidily-stacked pastries of various flavors and types. Arching an eyebrow, he plucked the scrap of paper from the CaesarStone countertop and scanned it with bleary morning eyes.

"_There are beverages in the fridge and some muffins, etc. on the counter. Don't use all the hot water."_

The note wasn't signed, but the scripty handwriting wasn't hard to place. Gilbert sighed, crumpled up the note, and grabbed a muffin off of the plate.

He took a spitefully long shower and dressed himself, thankful to find that his cell phone was still in the pocket of his pants; he pulled it out and pressed Speed Dial 2, which was his brother's number.

"Hello?"

"Morning." Gilbert tried to muster a note of cheer. He knew West was going to be angry.

"Gilbert." Just as promised, there was a frosty edge to Ludwig's deep voice. _"Guten tag, Bruder. _Mind telling me where exactly you were last night? I called you _three times."_

"Oh, ahahaha, yeah, well, funny story, eheheh, um...yeah, hey, I'm sorry I didn't call you and everything, but can you come and pick me up?" To be honest, he was trying not to be resentful at the fact that his _younger brother _was talking to him like a pissed off parent.

"Hm" was the only response he got.

"Hey, West, come on!" he whined, heading for the door. After a second thought, he took a detour to the kitchen and grabbed another chocolate chip muffin. "You don't trust your big brother to always come home in one piece? Heh heh heh."

There was a sigh on the other end. "You're careless."

"Aww, you're just a tightass," Gilbert teased in response, a grin in his voice as he took a bite of muffin. He chewed noisily while his brother responded.

"If you're going to be rude, perhaps I won't pick you up this time."

"Weeeeeest!" Gilbert griped through a mouthful of chocolate-chippy goodness. "Come on, I'm just joking around! You know I don't have a car right now!"

"You have legs. You could walk."

"I don't want to walk all that way!"

"Didn't you have a ride last night?"

"Yeah, but..." Gilbert glanced around the too-large and too-pristine apartment. "Things changed. Stuff happened."

Ludwig sighed. "Where are you?"

"...uhhh..."

"...Gilbert, you can't seriously not know where you are."

"Well, it's not so much that I don't know..."

"...you can really be reckless sometimes." He could hear the tension in his brother's voice.

"Here, here, just gimme a sec, gimme a sec!" Gilbert scrambled around the kitchen, looking for mailing addresses, phone numbers...ah, a stack of old mail, perfect! "Um...okay, okay, I'm at...I'm at 976 Salzburg Street. Y'happy? Now come pick me up."

"Fine. I'll come for you. But you should know you can't rely on me forever."

"Hey, what's that supposed to mea—" But Ludwig had already hung up, and the eerie silence of a dropped call was all that echoed in Gilbert's ears. He took the phone away from his head and stared down at it, grumbling, then shoved it in his pocket and headed for the door.

Ludwig picked him up in front of the high-end apartment complex fifteen minutes later, and the two of them drove back to Gilbert's apartment. The car ride was eerily silent.

* * *

This was a disaster.

Disaster. Disaster. Disaster.

"Mr. District Attorney, there's some new info on the Kitchen Knife Murders you might want to take a look at—"

"Thank you, Helena, just bring it in with the coffee."

"Are you sure you don't want to—" Roderich shut the door to his office before the blonde young lady was finished speaking, but he only mildly regretted this little stumble in his Gentlemanly Code of Conduct; he was much too frayed today to deal with something like that, not right now. He needed...he needed some more time to think. As if he had not thought enough already this morning. As if he had not been in horror at his own carelessness the moment he woke up in the arms of his _defendant, _the murderer he was _prosecuting..._as if that had not left his entire morning, nay, undoubtedly his entire _day _in shambles...

Oh God, oh God, oh God. Oh, sweet holy mother of Chopin. This was the greatest of all transgressions. He could be taken off the case for this, or worse, he...he had never even considered...

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

_You idiot how could you be so careless what did you think you were doing how could you let this happen what is wrong with you idiot idiot idiot have you no sense of dignity anymore?_

The self-criticism came in long, unending streams of scathing words, and he endured it as he always endured it – in silence. He was well-adjusted to it by now. It was ingrained in him.

One might not have thought someone as supposedly optimistic and (admittedly) slightly vain as Roderich to be able to have such a low opinion of himself, but after all these years of striving for perfection, being pushed by himself or his parents towards greatness, he was well-aware of what a fine prison one's own mind could make. And since it was so difficult for him to express his feelings in words, it all just stayed up there, all the hatred and negativity and snide comments aimed at himself. Some of them he could never fully play out with music. They were always there, and things like this, things acknowledgeable as reckless and stupid and idiotic and...ridiculously emotionally driven, just fed the monster.

_How on earth did you think this was going to be alright did you seriously believe this could somehow end well or did you not even think at all?_

Kick. Kick. Kick.

He _hadn't _thought. He hadn't. And now...if anyone found out, he...

"Shit," he hissed under his breath. It was rare that Roderich swore unless the situation was truly dire. He dubbed this situation more than dismal enough to deserve it.

_Your reputation. Your job. Did you even think about these things? What about Elizaveta? What if she had come back and found you?_

I don't want Elizaveta back.

_That doesn't matter! She's still the ADA! If she had walked in on you..._

But she didn't.

_But she could have! Do you even realize how much shit you are in, you moron?_

I know that.

_Is this even LEGAL?_

I'm not sure. I doubt it.

_HOW can you not KNOW? He kisses you in a fucking BAR and you invite him in for DRINKS. What did YOU think was going to happen, Roderich?_

I...I wasn't thinking.

_Damn straight you weren't thinking! You fucking idiot!_

He winced. The gravity of the situation just made itself more and more apparent as he continued to berate himself.

Idiot. Stupid. Moron. Idiot. Idiot. _Idiot._

_Your parents always taught you that following your heart before your head was a stupid idea. And you didn't even follow your heart. You followed your dick._

Don't remind me, he hissed at himself.

_You should be straight. You dated a woman for three years._

I know that.

But his first kiss had been with a member of the same sex, he reflected grimly. He shoved that memory from his mind with a faint recollection that he had to go get that testimony from a certain blonde arms dealer.

The phone on his desk rang, jerking him from his thoughts, and he picked it up a little too quickly. "Yes?"

"Mr. District Attorney?" It was Helena; there was a hint of anxiety in her voice.

"...yes. Is something the matter?"

"...Gilbert Beilschmidt is here...he wants to speak with you."

_Shit._

Shit no no no no no he was not ready for this confrontation yet he still had to sort out what exactly he was going to do and he wasn't ready...

"Should I...let him in, sir?" Helena's voice asked tentatively from the other end of the line. Roderich sighed heavily, dropping into his office chair. Its plastic frame squeaked and groaned in protest.

He could not avoid this. Turning Beilschmidt away now would just seek to make things worse. "Yes, send him in..."

"I tried to tell him he couldn't talk to you, but he insisted..."

"No, Helena, it's no trouble. Just send him in."

"Very well, sir." The line went dead on the other end. Roderich replaced the receiver and tried not to look at the door, almost an attempt to convince himself he wasn't nervous.

The new doorhinges made very little sound, so he was first alerted to the presence of another in the room by the heavy clomp of his boots. His next clue was the sound of a slightly nervous, but familiarly grating, voice. "...hey, Roderich." At last, with a great surge of courage, he turned his attention to the albino in the doorway. He was much...neater than when Roderich had seen him last, wearing a fresh button-up shirt and dark pants. There were no sunglasses pushed up into his hair now, and the flush of alcohol in his cheeks was gone.

Roderich felt a surge of shame.

"Mr. Beilschmidt," he greeted curtly, even after Gilbert had closed the door. The pale-haired young man seemed slightly startled by the formality. "Have a seat."

Wary ruby eyes fixed on him as the taller man took a seat, watching Roderich steadily.

"Is there something I can do for you?" Roderich asked, trying not to make eye contact.

"Don't...act like this, Roddy. We have to talk about last night. About what happened." Beilschmidt, for once, did not look relaxed. He was tapping his fingers on the arm of the chair, and there was a faint spark of...perhaps it was hope in his eyes.

_Yes, certainly. Hope that he can fuck his way out of first degree murder charges._

Roderich felt a swell of resentment, though whether it was at Gilbert or himself – possibly both – it was hard to decipher.

"I've no idea what you mean."

Gilbert, sitting across from him, felt his breakfast churn uncomfortably. How could he just...pretend like...after what had happened between them, he...

Gilbert had had a lot of sex. A _lot _of sex. But last night...that had been some of the best, even by his standards. Even his ex-boyfriend hadn't fucked like that—

No. He had to stop talking to himself like that. This was Roderich. He was like a very rare, very special, and very expensive breed of show dog. He wasn't just a trophy fuck; last night had _meant _something to Gilbert, and a fuck that meant something to Gilbert Beilschmidt was hard to come by. Sex had become something that had very little to do with love these days, for him. But last night had been different. Last night...

He found that now, looking at Roderich, all he could think was _I want to do that again._

"H-hey, Priss, come on," he tried, mustering a smile. "Don't...act like that. You know, last night? We..." He swallowed.

"We what, Mr. Beilschmidt?" There was an icy edge in Roderich's voice that made Gilbert wince.

"...we had sex," he muttered, almost resentfully, but desperately at the same time, as if pleading for Roderich to accept it as fact. He knew exactly why Roderich was doing this – and to be honest, he hardly even blamed him – but it still hurt like fuck. "Slept together. Made love. Fu—"

"_Mr. Beilschmidt."_

Gilbert looked up at him, red eyes gleaming.

"I haven't the slightest idea _what _absurd accusations you are making now," the attorney began coldly, "but they are entirely vulgar and inappropriate. Now, please leave my office at once. If you wish to speak with me, you should contact your lawyer."

"I don't need Francis around just to talk to you about sex!" Gilbert snapped, leaning across the desk. He wondered if he was imagining the way the brunette shrank back into his chair. "Listen, _Papillion, _whether you'll admit to it or not, what happened last night _happened _all the same! Now you can be a fucking coward and deny it, but _I'm not going to forget it! I don't fucking want to, _understand?"

"Mr. Beilschmidt, please use your inside voice," Roderich responded flatly, like a teacher scolding an unruly student.

"You were all too keen to call me 'Gilbert' last night, _Mister Edelstein," _Gilbert responded in a scathing tone. How could this priss just...how could he? After Gilbert had laid himself out before him, and now he was...

This was the last time he trusted anyone with his feelings. He had been hurt too many times, and this was the straw to break the camel's back.

"Excuse me?" the DA hissed, his eyes narrowing. Gilbert narrowed his eyes right back.

"You heard me, you stupid little aristocrat," he retorted, standing slowly. "You lying little bastard, I—" But then something in Gilbert made him stop. The insults on his tongue dried up for once in his life, and he just stared, defiant, broken. At last, in a quiet voice, he spoke.

"Heh. I suppose I can't blame you, Priss. After all, I suppose your _job _and your _reputation _have always been a lot more important than the people in your life. Isn't that right?" His bloodred eyes were challenging, daring Roderich to contradict him, but the District Attorney said nothing. Gilbert felt another pang of pain in his chest. "Well, I won't stop you. I won't fucking stop you, okay? You can _send _me to prison. Why the fuck should I even care?" A humorless bark of laughter escaped him. "I never thought you would sink this low, Roddy. I really didn't."

"Leave my office."

"I thought you were better than that—"

"I asked you to leave."

"But I guess you are just as cold and heartless as I thought you were—"

"Mr. Beilschmidt." Their voices rose steadily in volume like combating warriors.

"I don't know why I even bothered with a prat like you!"

"_Mister Beilschmidt!"_ Roderich slammed his hands down on the desk and practically glared at the man across from him, now on his feet. The taller of the two only started slightly before glowering steadily back. "If you wish to talk to me about anything, you are to have your _attorney present. _Now, leave my office at _once, _before I call security."

Gilbert stared at him, a tumultuous storm of emotions – fury, sorrow, hurt, frustration – raging behind his eyes. He said nothing; after a long, pregnant pause, he turned on his heel and stormed out of the office, slamming the door.

Roderich sank back into his chair after a moment, his anger morphing into horror as he stared at his hands, then covered his face with them, trying desperately to convince himself he had done the right thing. His job was safe. The case was safe. His dignity was safe. But there was one predominant question in his mind, one that would not leave him be.

"What have I done...?"

* * *

SLAM.

Ludwig Beilschmidt was first made aware of his brother's return by the sound of the front door of the apartment slamming shut.

"...Gilbert?" He looked up from the newspaper he had been reading. "Are you home?"

He heard only a garbled sound of rage in response, ended very abruptly with a scream of "FUCK."

"Gilbert?" he questioned again, his stern voice colored slightly with concern as he emerged from the living room, just in time to see his brother throw a tray table to the floor.

"WHAT," the albino snapped, his red eyes afire, lip curled. Everything about him reeked of violence, even more than usual (for Gilbert had always had that air of aggression around him, more so even than his uncompromising brother)...and yet, there was a hint of something unfamiliar in him. This was not the anger Ludwig had seen when someone had insulted their now-deceased grandfather, Aldrick, or even worse, their father Frederich, to whom Gilbert was incredibly close. This surpassed the frustration Ludwig had witnessed when Gilbert broke his favorite violin in the seventh grade. It was some new conglomerate of emotions altogether, and it seemed to Ludwig to have a bit of the sorrowful fury in it that he had seen in Gilbert the day their grandfather had died, or when Frederich had been admitted to the hospital a few months ago.

Ludwig was tempted to take a step back, so fronted was he by this anger, but he stood his ground. _"Bruder, was ist es?" _he asked, and for once, his usual stony and impersonal expression was giving way to one of genuine worry.

"Why should YOU care?" Gilbert shrieked, toppling a chair. Ludwig's brow furrowed, and he took a step forward, placing himself between Gilbert and the chair as he reached down to right it. His elder brother made another primal sound of wrath and flew at him. Ludwig grabbed his sibling's thinner wrists in his own and held them as Gilbert yelled and tried to jerk his wrists free, screaming "LET ME GO, WEST!"

"Calm down." Ludwig's eyes were as gentle as they could be, but with the undertone of discipline in them that Gilbert hated so much. He finally pulled himself from his brother's grasp and growled at him.

"Tell me what is bothering you, Gilbert. I am living here, too."

"Yeah, only until you move in with that damn Italian and his huge fucking mansion and leave me all alone!" Gilbert snapped back at him, taking a step back as he rubbed his wrist resentfully. "Because that's what _everyone _does! They _all abandon me!"_

"Gilbert, what happened?" Ludwig asked softly.

The older of the Beilschmidt brothers laughed humorlessly, almost hysterically. "That fucking aristocrat thinks he's so great. Ha! He can't even...and I...I..." He had stopped yelling now. His voice trailed off into a whisper, and he looked away.

For one of the few times in his life, Ludwig saw his brother truly hurting.

"...is this about Roderich Edelstein?" Ludwig guessed, taking a step closer to his brother.

Gilbert retracted, smiling dryly. "Is it about Roderich Edelstein." Another bark of laughter completely devoid of humor. "I need to be alone."

"Gilbert—"

"I'll be in my room. Don't bother me." The leaner of the two ran a hand through his nearly-white hair and stormed down the hall. Ludwig heard a door slam, and then, but a minute later, the third movement of Antonio Vivaldi's Summer, "Storm," could be heard erupting from a violin behind the closed door of Gilbert's room.

After all, he was a musician.

* * *

**(A/N: THERE YOU GO, Gilbert's musical talent reemerges. I know I haven't done much with it, but that's because a lot of the storyline has been centered around Roderich's perspective so far. It still probably will be, but as you can see, I'm branching out a bit, so you guys will be able to see a little more of Gilbert than before. :3**

**Lots of drama in this chapter. Roddy is bastardly, I know.**

**QUICK GERMAN LESSON!**

**_Bruder, was ist es?_ = Brother, what is it?**

**Also, Vivaldi's "Storm" is a great piece, look it up.**

**Reviews are adored. Until next time!)  
**


	9. Chapter 9

**(A/N: Hello, my lovely readers, and a late Merry Christmas/Happy New Year! I know you've all been waiting for this update for a while, but it's taken me until today to figure out where I want it to go. I don't want to say it's a filler chapter, but there isn't very much PruAus in here, just some plot stuff and lots of drama. We're really getting into the thick of it now!**

**Since today is Prussia's birthday, this chapter is a bit Prussia-centric for at least the first half. Sorry it had to be so angsty, though, Gilbert. Still love you!**

**ALSO, herein starts the USUK. Ye have been warned.**

**Anyway, enjoy!)**

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* * *

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Gilbert Beilschmidt counted himself as being very good at two things: Being his awesome self (which entailed pretty much all of his amazing talents and qualities), and getting rip-roaringly drunk. Tonight, he thought to himself as he leaned across the bar, he was excelling at both.

"Ahahaha, get me another beer!" he called to the bartender, waving his empty mug in the air with a lazy grin across his face. "Beer! Beer!"

"I think you've had enough," the bartender muttered; Gilbert was too drunk to realize it was the same tall, stoic man of the previous evening. Had he known, it probably would have reminded him why he was out getting blasted in the first place.

_Forget about that priss. Just forget all about him. You don't need him. You don't need anyone. You're Gilbert fucking Beilschmidt, awesome musician, awesome soldier, awesome in bed, and just generally all around awesome. You don't fucking need him..._

There were those thoughts coming back again.

"BEER!" he snapped, slamming his mug on the table.

"Fine, fine," ground out the bartender. He took Gil's mug and refilled it. The Prussian grinned and downed half of it in one gulp.

"Aaaahhhhhh~" he sighed, feeling the familiar numbness of alcohol wash over him. It always made him feel better...but it wasn't like he was dependent on it, definitely not. He wasn't an alcoholic. West was just a bad judge of character. Yeah.

He didn't _need _beer. He didn't _need _anything. Or anyone.

"Especially not stupid fucking _prissy elitist LAWYERS." _He was screaming now and he didn't know why. He beat his fists on the counter, snarling.

"Excuse me, sir, I'm going to have to ask you to leave," growled the bartender. Gilbert glared at him for a moment before bursting into peals of drunken, almost forced laughter.

"Fine! All you lamebrains can't even handle me! I'm too fucking awesome! Fine, I'll leave. HA! You're all so LAME." He almost knew he was making a complete fool of himself as he staggered for the door, grinning and flushed from alcohol, but he was far too drunk to care. He had never cared what other people thought of him, anyway. Not...that much.

Kicking the door to the bar open, he stormed outside onto the street, laughing his ass off at everyone in his line of sight. "You're all idiots. I'm the greatest!" he screamed at no-one in particular, nearly tripping over his own two feet as he stumbled down the street in a drunken daze. He saw people giving him odd looks, flipped them all the bird, and continued to wander; it seemed to be the only thing he could really do at the moment. He didn't know where West was. And he didn't really have anywhere to go, besides back to jail, and like hell did he want that.

The lack of care that came with his drunkenness was probably what got him lost.

Before he could notice it, he was halfway down a dark alley, and through his haze, Gilbert faintly remembered it wasn't a good idea to be stumbling through a dark alley in the middle of the night.

That was about the same time a pair of cold, gloved hands shoved him against the slightly damp bricks of the alley wall.

Gilbert cried out in protest, trying to shove his assailant away with a few slurs of, "Hey, man, that's not cool, stop it! Heeeeeey, get off!" but the hands were persistent, keeping him firmly against the wall, and he was far too smashed to defend himself.

Then, he felt the icy sharpness of a blade press against the hot skin of his throat.

He swallowed hard.

"H-hey, I...I don' wan' any trouble...jus' take my wallet...ssseriously, don't..."

The blade pressed down harder. Gilbert squeaked in fear as he felt it just barely pierce his skin. "OhGoddon'killmeeee," he tried to say, but it came out in a jumbled mess; his tongue seemed too big for his mouth all of the sudden, his teeth like blockades, his lips uncooperative and dry.

"Stay still,"a heavily accented voice hissed from the darkness. Gilbert was too far gone to recognize where the accent was from, but it sure as hell wasn't German. "I'm going to kill you. Troublesome _svoloch. _I hate you. I hate you. I hate you."

"DON'T KILL ME!" Gilbert screamed in an extraordinarily high-pitched voice, squirming against the filth of the brick wall. Getting dirty was absolutely the last thing on his mind. "DON'T KILL ME, PLEASE!"

Had he been in his right mind, he would have challenged the voice, spat at it, done something, while he simultaneously developed the perfect tactic for escape. But this blasted, Gilbert was helpless, bordering on pathetic, like most frightened drunk people were. He was not getting away from this as easily as he usually could have.

"I'll get you, and then you will be out of our hair..."

"DON'TKILLME!" the albino shrieked, eyes wide and staring into the darkness before squeezing tightly shut in terror.

The shady character snarled. "Loud bastard," it said, then seemed to glance at the mouth of the alley, where a few pedestrians had stopped, looking into the alley with confused expressions. The voice hissed in irritation, grumbling in a foreign language under its breath at the attention...and then, suddenly, it was gone.

Gone?

Cautiously, Gilbert reached his hands out in front of him and made grabbing motions. No, there was definitely no-one there...he was okay...! He was alive! Alive!

Pressing a hand to his throat, he felt a little blood leaking from the shallow cut the knife had made and felt his heart wrench with fear. A swell of emotion nearly brought tears to his eyes; _he could have died. He could be dead right now. He could be dead and bleeding in an alley and no-one would care..._

Water slithered from his wide scarlet eyes down his cheeks, making light plinking sounds as they dripped from his chin to the wet ground. He sunk to his knees, suppressing a sob or two of terror as he fumbled for his phone, hands heavy with the weight of his physical and mental state.

Who could he call, who could he call? He needed someone to come get him, come get him now, he...he...th-they could come back, he wasn't safe!

Crying softly, he tried West's number. Speed dial 2.

"_Hello, you have reached Ludwig Beilschmidt. I am unavailable to come to the phone right now—"_

"VERDAMMT, WEST!" Gilbert screamed, hanging up. His chest was filling up with emotion as more tears sprung to his eyes, and he felt himself shaken by terrified sobs, clutching at his body as he tried another number. "Pick up...oh, Gott...Francispleasepickup..." His whole body was shaking. He felt like he was going to throw up. His heart was running overtime.

"_Bonjour!"_

"ThankGod...Francis..."

"_You have reached the Master of L'Amour, Francis Bonnefoy. Unfortunately for us both, I'm away from the phone right now—"_

Gilbert howled in frustration again and slammed the phone shut, panting heavily for a few moments as his body quivered – still coursing with adrenalin – before he opened the phone again and pressed Speed Dial 4. Antonio. His last hope.

The phone stopped ringing after two rings.

"Hola, Gilbert! _¿Qué pasa?"_

"Antonio...ohGodthankyou..."

"G...Gilbert? Are you alright, amigo?_ ¿Q-qué te pasó?"_

"Someone...f-fuck, I-I think s-..."

"Wh-whoa, whoa, hombre, slow down, please!" Antonio sounded genuinely worried. It was nice to have a person or two in your life who actually did give a damn about you. "What happened?"

"S-someone jus' tried t'kill me," Gilbert slurred into the phone. "OhGod...Tonio..."

"WHAT? O-oh...Dios mío...o-okay, where are you? I'll come get you..."

"I dunno," Gilbert sobbed, doubling over and rocking back and forth in the puddle he'd fallen into. "I dunno, I dunno where I am!"

"Okay, okay, calm down, I can hardly understand you! Um...uh...sh-should I call the police?"

"_No, just come get me!" _Gilbert half-snarled, half-pleaded, half-sobbed, crawling towards the exit to the alleyway. "I-I'm totally hammered 'n...I...'m in the alley...n-near m'favorite...bar...justcomegetme..."

"Already in the car, hombre. Stay right where you are. Do you need me to stay on the phone?"

"Yeah..."

"Okay, okay...just calm down, you'll be fine, okay? _Todo es bueno. _I'm coming to get you."

"Okay..."

Five minutes later, Antonio was pulling a drunk and distressed Gilbert into his car. Gilbert could feel nothing by then except relief.

_I could have been dead._

_Well, at least then I wouldn't be a bother to Roderich anymore..._

_

* * *

_

Gilbert wasn't really the kind of person to get down on himself or lack any self-esteem. That wasn't who he was. His ego was usually as inflated as a bouncy castle at a five-year-old's birthday party. It was just...all of this...he...he...

"Fuck it all," he hissed, leaning against the passenger-side door of Antonio's car and glaring out the window. "Why's everything gotta be so fucking hard?"

"Well, don't be so down about it, hombre," Antonio responded cheerfully, adjusting his rear-view mirror. "Everything has a bright side, you know! I'm sure this will tide over eventually. And don't you have a concert next week? You can be looking forward to that."

"Yeah, I have a rehearsal tomorrow night," the silver-haired man grumbled, sighing and leaning back in his seat. "If they'll still take me. Considering I had to get _bailed out of jail."_

"You're one of the best violinists they have," Antonio responded, trying to lighten his mood. It wasn't working very well; Gilbert was normally fairly optimistic, but today it felt like a thick layer of storm clouds had formed a permanent shell of doom and gloom around him. He didn't _want _to be happy. He had no reason to be. He was suspected of the murder of three people; the man he...was...attracted to was the District Attorney prosecuting him, _not to mention _the man who had totally denied the occurrence of some of the best sex Gilbert had ever had; his brother preferred some rich Italian's company over his; he barely had enough money for beer and his brother suspected him of alcoholism; AND, to top it all off, now someone wanted him dead.

No. There wasn't any reason to be happy.

"Okay, here we are..." Antonio pulled up in front of the apartment complex and glanced at Gil, looking concerned. "You know, Gil...you can stay with me for a while, if you need to."

"Nah." Gilbert smiled, a little more sadly than usual. "Just...all my stuff's here, anyway."

"I'm sure Lud will be home soon," Antonio said, his green eyes practically glowing with the good humor he was trying to instill.

"Yeah, 'm sure he will." Gilbert flashed his Spanish friend a victory sign and got out of the car with a sigh. Antonio had let him borrow some clothes; the ones from last night had been a bit bloody and covered in filth. He could still feel his legs shaking faintly from the shock, but he shoved those feelings down, gave Antonio one last wave goodbye, and stuck his hands in his pockets as he walked towards the door.

* * *

Ludwig was not there when he got back. He wasn't there for hours, so Gilbert waited. He sat on the couch with a bottle of beer and watched old reruns of sitcoms that weren't even funny, and he waited.

Ludwig finally came home at 1 AM. Gilbert had gotten home at 12 PM.

Gilbert could hear the spite leaking into his tone as he spoke up. "How nice of you to join us." His eyes didn't leave the screen.

"Hm?" Ludwig looked over at the couch and the blaring TV as he hung his jacket on a hook by the door. "Oh, Gilbert. You're home."

His red-eyed elder sibling flashed him the most humorless and mocking of smiles. "Yeah, West," he responded, his tone low and venomous. "Yeah, I'm home. I've been home since noon, actually. Funny, when you said you were going to let me stay at your place for a while, I was under the influence of the delusion you'd actually _be _here every one in a while. Do you even know where I slept last night? Huh?"

"...here?" His brother was regarding him with a cool stare.

"Hah!" Gilbert descended into a brief fit of slightly-hysterical laughter. "Hahaha, no. I slept at Antonio's. You wanna know why?"

"...please tell me you didn't sleep with him," Ludwig said, looking strained.

Gilbert just stared at him for a moment.

A flicker. It was a flicker first, and then a flame, and then that flame became a fire, and then he was boiling, boiling over, and he was on his feet, and his hands were on Ludwig's shoulders, and he was shoving him back against the closed door of the apartment and screaming.

"I DIDN'T FUCKING SLEEP WITH HIM, LUDWIG! I was at ANTONIO'S house because HE was the only one who PICKED UP THE PHONE last night after _SOMEBODY_ _TRIED TO FUCKING KILL ME!"_

He just let that sink in for a moment, breathing hard, glaring up at Ludwig with eyes of flame. The first signs of surprise were starting to show in the icy blue eyes staring back at him.

He laughed again.

"I was piss drunk, they THREW ME OUT OF THE BAR, and I got LOST, and then someone..."

He was losing it. He was losing his cool. It was slipping away from him.

_He remembered himself screaming. He could hear himself whimpering drunkenly in his head. Please don't kill me. Please don't kill me. How pathetic he had been. What kind of a soldier was he?  
_

Gilbert bit his bottom lip and wiped angrily at his eyes, a colder anger washing over him as his eyes trailed slowly up to his brother. Ludwig seemed too startled to move, still flattened against the door. "So no, Ludwig," he said bitterly. "No, I didn't fucking sleep with Antonio last night. I slept on his couch. He put this BANDAGE on my neck over where the FUCKING KNIFE cut me." He pointed to the thin wrap of gauze around his throat over the shallow wound from the knife. "And you know who I called first? _You know who I called first, Ludwig Beilschmidt?"_

The blonde didn't say anything.

"You." Gilbert almost laughed again; a frosty smile split his lips. "I tried to call _you, _because for some _crazy reason, _I thought maybe your older brother would be more important to you than your rich little boyfriend."

"Gilbert, Feliciano isn't—"

The smaller of the two put up his hand. "Save it," he hissed. "Just save it." He turned on the heel of his shoe and began to walk towards his room, and as he walked, he spoke. "I'm getting my stuff. I'm going to stay at Tonio's for a while. God knows he can balance _his _rich Italian with his _best friend _a little better than you." A dry scoff escaped him. He turned in the doorway to look back at Ludwig, who still had barely moved. The blonde's expression was infuriatingly unreadable.

Gilbert felt a twinge of sadness twist at his sarcastic smile. "Have fun, little brother."

* * *

Velt City's chief of police had someone on his mind, and it was making him very, very grumpy.

"Damn that stupid git, he doesn't know anything, he..." The Brit paused to take a long swig of tea. "He doesn't know a thing about me."

Arthur Kirkland was not talking about the (prissy and obnoxious) District Attorney who had just left his office after an absolutely _rousing _conversation concerning the evidence against Gilbert Beilschmidt. No, the shaggy-haired young chief was far more preoccupied with other things...like that bloody git of a mayor.

Alfred Fucking Jones.

"Presumptuous bastard," he snarled, glaring daggers at the phone with his green eyes. "Hah. 'Give me a call anytime, Arthur,' he says. 'Maybe we could get dinner sometime, Arthur,' he says. What's he try'na do, _flirt _with me? Like I even fucking care about some stupid American _tosser. _Him and his stupid fucking accent and his stupid fucking face and his stupid fucking jacket..."

That jacket.

It was sitting on a chair a few feet away from him.

Alfred's bomber jacket, with the airplane on the shoulder and the big "50" on the back...

And Arthur was too much of a coward to return it.

"Wanker, that's what 'e is."

So why did the events of last evening still resonate in his mind?

_He'd been over to the mayor's office to talk about the Kitchen Knife Murders case, how the suspect had recently escaped and what they were going to do about it...what if the suspect skipped town? They had had that one in custody..._

_It had been a long discussion, and not many conclusions were reached besides a little tightening of security. The evening was a cold one – it was March, after all – and Arthur didn't have a jacket._

_He was getting up to leave when Alfred noticed._

"_Hey, uh, Chief...no jacket?"_

_Arthur looked over at him, his well-endowed eyebrows descending. "Yeah. What's it to you?"_

_That big idiot just sort of smiled at him. "Nothing, it's just cold tonight."_

"_I've had worse. It's colder in London." He scrutinized the other blonde for a moment, frowning. "I'm guessing you're from somewhere classy and warm like California or something, huh?"_

_Alfred laughed a little bit. "No, I'm from New York, actually. I know a thing or two about cold winters." His well-meaning smile became one of his signature grins._

"_Oh." Arthur looked off to the side, feeling a bit sheepish after his misjudgment. "Well...I'd best be off. Work to do and all that."_

"_Hey, um...wait a sec."_

_The Brit glanced back at the young mayor as he got up from his seat and grabbed his far-too-familiar bomber jacket off the back of his office chair. Blue eyes fixed on Arthur, Alfred rounded the desk and stepped close to him – a little closer than made Arthur feel comfortable. As the shorter of the two tried to get a word out, some protest, something, the taller American slipped the jacket over Arthur's thin shoulders._

"_Take this, okay?" His smile was warm and welcoming, and...maybe not quite as stupid as usual. "You can return it whenever, I'll be here." A quieter version of his usual obnoxious laugh escaped him._

"_Since when have you cared about anyone but yourself, y'egotistical git? And why the hell would you give me your jacket?" Arthur was trying to put words between them like he always did, make some scathing comment that would make the other party back off and leave him alone. It kept him at a pretty good distance from everyone else; the bluntness, the cynicism, the sharp words. He relied on them._

_Alfred laughed again. "Don't be silly, Kirkland, of course I care about other people! Heroes always do, right?" Another grin. "And I want you to have the jacket because it's cold outside and you don't have one, of course. So just take it, alright?"_

"_I don't want your smelly old jacket! I said I'll be fine!"_

_Alfred didn't seem to hear him. He was pulling the coat more securely over Arthur's shoulders. "H-hey, let go," the Brit grumbled, swatting Alfred's hands away before (reluctantly) sliding his arms into the sleeves. "Fine. I'll take your dumb old jacket. But don't think this means I owe you anything."_

"_Course not," Alfred replied with an obnoxious beam; he seemed way too pleased with himself. "Be careful out there."_

"_Right." Arthur zipped up the jacket and headed for the door._

"_And hey, call me anytime about the case. We could maybe discuss it over dinner next time? You can call me on my cell, I'm sure my secretary can get you the number."_

_The police chief froze at the door for a moment, fearing his heartbeat was audible, then muttered something that sounded like a "YeahmaybeifI'mnotbusy" under his breath before he fled the premises, his face flushing an admirable shade of magenta._

That. Bastard.

He totally did this on purpose.

He totally did this just so Arthur would have to call him and arrange some way to give the jacket back, that stupid, stupid jacket. This was all that git Alfred's fault. All of it.

With one last grumble, he picked up the phone and dialed the private number Alfred's secretary had given him the other day.

"Heeeeeello! Alfred speaking!"

"Hi, er, Mayor Jones," Arthur began stiffly, tapping the fingers of his free hand on his desk nervously.

"Oh, Arthur!" A laugh resonated from the other end. "Hey, no need to call me 'mayor' outside my office. 'Alfred' is just fine, y'know."

"Er...right...anyway." Arthur cleared his throat, tugging a bit nervously at the collar of his shirt. "Listen, I still have your jacket...and I, uh...have some stuff to discuss with you, so maybe...we could, ah...grab a bite to eat somewhere tonight."

"Sounds great! McDonald's?"

Of course that daft wanker would suggest McDonald's.

"I was thinking somewhere a little...different," he ground out.

"Oh, right. Sure! No problem. You pick the place."

"How about the restaurant on 5th and Lincoln?" It was a little classy for Arthur's tastes, but they served the best fish and chips in town (aside from the ones he made, others' opinions on his cooking aside), and it didn't seem like it was _too _high-class for a casual conversation about the law...because that was all this is. It wasn't a date. It definitely was not a date.

"Oh, yeah, I know the place. Never been there before. How's seven?"

"S-seven?" Why the bloody hell was he stammering? "Sounds great. I mean...yeah. Sure. Seven."

"Great!" Arthur could _hear _Alfred's goofy grin through the phone. "See you then, Chief!"

"Y-yeah, uh..." Arthur smiled a bit nervously. "See you then."

He hurriedly hung up the phone and started collecting his things; he had only two hours until the da—MEETING, the MEETING, NOT a date, with Alfred.

"What have you gotten yourself into now, Arthur Kirkland...?"

* * *

The keys of Roderich's piano were cold.

He stared down at them for a long time, his violet eyes pleading, _Please, please, tell me what to do. Please. I need help._

The ivory was silent. Roderich bit his lip.

Of course an instrument would not solve his problems for him. He had been stupid to think so. But...but it would always listen to him. Always. Even if it could not resolve his issues, it could be the only one that heard them.

With that in mind, he raised his thin, elegant hands, long fingers brushing and caressing the keys like one would the cheek of a lover. No-one else could know, but the piano...the piano could know. He always felt like it was some sentient being, far wiser than him and far more advanced in years, though he had bought the instrument just five years before. It always knew what to do, but like a prudent mentor, it would never tell him outright; it made him find the answer himself.

He would find the answer. He needed to find the answer.

He tapped his fingertips rhythmically against the tops of the keys a few more times, then began to press down as the music flowed from him. Chopin Piano Sonata #2 in B Flat, Op. 35, Grave. The alternations between dark and frantic and pensive and melodious seemed all too appropriate for Roderich, considering the circumstances, and he let himself go to the music entirely.

Watching Roderich play piano was something of a realization. Before, one may have believed him to be a man of stony exterior and a restricted emotional range, but as he played the piano, it was clear that he was capable of vivid human sentiment. Roderich was like an entirely different person; his facial expressions fluctuated with feeling, his fingers moving with grace and dexterity as the music seemed to flow out from _him_, not just the piano. His body rocked with the power of his emotions. Perhaps this was the Real Roderich, not the pretense he had made everyone believe was him.

No, indeed, this had to be him. The real thing. And the Real Roderich was not a lawyer, an elitist, a pillar of solitude, or a leader.

He was only human.

When the last few notes of the piece echoed in the emptiness of the room, Roderich was still raw and shaking, eyes closed, his breath coming in deep gasps. _Gilbert. Gilbert. Gilbert._

_It didn't fix anything. _He didn't find the answer. He didn't find peace. All of those feelings and problems were _still there. _Still torturing him.

_Gilbert._

_Gilbert.  
_

Roderich pounded out a dissonant chord and swiped a vase off the top of the piano in one furious movement. It struck the wall and the porcelain shattered, the shards careening through the air, but Roderich hardly heard. He buried his fingers in his hair and screamed.

"VERDAMMT."

* * *

**(A/N: Oh, Roderich, you angstmuffin. You know I can't go a chapter without writing something about you.**

**Some translation notes!**

**¿Qué pasa? = What's up?  
¿Qué te pasó? = What happened to you?  
Dios mío = My God!  
Verdammt = Dammit**

**I'm guessing you can assume which language is which judging by the characters, hehe.**

**Next chapter shouldn't take so long. I know I always say that, but seriously. Love you all! Reviews are adored!)  
**


	10. Chapter 10

**(A/N: Hey, you guys, look who finally got back into the swing of things! XD**

**For a long time, I didn't really know what I wanted to do with this chapter. I got my muse back a week or so ago, but then some circumstances kept me from finishing it. I've got a really busy week on the way, but I think I can get this story swinging again. A thousand apologies for the wait.**

**This chapter...well, I think you'll all like it quite a lot. You'll see why. I hope you'll like it, anyway.**

**I don't like Taylor Swift, but the song "Back to December" is pretty fitting for the last chapter and this one. Anyway, enjoy!)**

* * *

"Roderich, you need to get out of the house."

"I get out of the house every day."

"I mean, you need to get out of the house besides your daily trip to work and back." Eduard sighed, twirling a pen between his fingers. "I understand your social life isn't particularly 'happening' and you haven't a lot of friends and your girlfriend's left you, but you need to do something instead of just...being miserable. It's depressing everyone in the office."

"Well, I am terribly sorry for the inconvenience," the brunette muttered with biting sarcasm, folding his narrow arms across his chest. "My apologies if I have in any way 'depressed' you, because obviously it is entirely my fault that you choose to be influenced by my mood."

Eduard started slightly and put up his hands. "Now, hold on a moment, Roderich, there is no need to jump all over me. I'm only trying to help."

"I do not need help," the District Attorney replied acerbically, violet eyes narrowing.

The other lawyer didn't flinch, but retained that cool smile he was so well-known for. "Honestly, Roderich, that's very much like you," he mused aloud to himself, dark blue eyes calculating.

The DA's violet eyes narrowed. "In what way?"

"Always denying help. Roderich Edelstein is a fortress, he doesn't need any aid from outside sources. There are enough emergency rations stored in his head to last a year."

"I really don't have time for this."

"Fine, then," Eduard scoffed. "Work yourself into a coma."

"Perhaps I will," Roderich hissed, and stormed down the hallway into his office, nearly slamming the door.

Eduard stared after him and sighed softly. "What on earth has him so upset?"

* * *

Roderich's second confrontation of the day arrived in a suit jacket and a pleated skirt, in the form of Assistant District Attorney Elizaveta Héderváry. (As if his day was not bad enough already.) Elizaveta was absolutely the last person he wanted to talk to at the moment, so he made a point of acting very, very busy when she entered, hoping it would be enough to convince her to leave.

It wasn't.

"Stop pretending to be busy and listen to me."

Roderich pursed his lips, wondering whether or not he should listen, but his pen stopped moving over the form it had been filling out.

"How may I help you?" he asked, not looking up from his work.

"Roderich, look at me."

There was a part of him growing more and more eager to scream.

"I am very busy, in fact, Ms. Assistant District Attorney, so if you could consult me at another time, it would be most appreciated."

There was a brief silence. Elizaveta frowned before speaking, her green eyes flashing dangerously.

"I'm getting the rest of my stuff out of your apartment."

Was that supposed to affect him now? Roderich almost laughed to himself; he hid his derisive smile with the back of his hand. No. After all of the emotional bullshit he'd been through in the two weeks since she'd left...well. He had been in considerably more distress than she could ever cause him singlehandedly. As if she could bother him now. As if she could influence him now.

"Very well," he responded evenly.

"Why are you taking that tone with me?" she asked coldly. "Do I mean nothing to you now, is that it? Have you moved on that quickly, Roderich?"

A part of him understood her. Elizaveta had always been bossed around as a child – more violently than Roderich, certainly – so it wasn't surprising that she had grown into such a strong and independent woman. He didn't have a problem with strong, independent women – in fact, he rather liked them – and he didn't have a problem with Elizaveta being bossy. What he did take issue with was the fact that they were broken up, he was above her on the chain of command, and she still insisted on speaking to him in this fashion. She needed to understand that he was finished taking orders from his Assistant District Attorney, and he was finished having her dictate his life to him.

She wasn't the only one tired of having to listen to everyone else about everything.

"Elizaveta," he said slowly, "do not be deceived." He looked up from his work, all the poise and composure he could muster in his voice and expression. "Yes, I still care for your well-being. Yes, a...part of me still loves you, but not quite in the way it used to. I...have overcome any prior romantic feelings toward you, and I would assume you have done the same."

"I've moved on," she replied, in a low and dangerous voice.

"I am entirely certain you have," he responded, getting slowly to his feet. "I know that you will find happiness with someone else. You are beautiful and outgoing. You..." He paused, collected himself. "You never really needed me in the way that..." He didn't want to admit this. "...in the way that I needed someone. Anyone." But not her, not anymore. He didn't need her anymore, not in that way. "But I do not...need that now." He needed it more than ever, but he needed it from someone else now. "Regardless of whatever impressions you may have, I have moved on, as well. I would prefer this little conflict—"

"_Little conflict? _Is that all this is to you, Roderich?"

"I would prefer," he said, with more frost in his voice, "that this _little conflict _not get in the way of our working relationship. You are a very intelligent and capable ADA, Ms. Héderváry, but you are the _Assistant _District Attorney. I, Roderich Edelstein, am the District Attorney, and while I would appreciate your assistance very much, I am your superior. This is my office." It was becoming exceedingly difficult to keep the proud smile from spreading across his face. _At last._

She looked as if she was about to scowl, to rebuke him somehow, but then she stopped, seeming to consider something. For a moment, she was silent; she closed her eyes, then opened them again and looked at him. Her gaze was calm, collected, and thoughtful, as if analyzing something to herself. "I understand, Mr. District Attorney," she reponded. A sigh escaped her, and she ran a hand through her long, light brown hair. "I'm sorry for my behavior. You're...right, we're not going to get anything done this way."

Roderich almost sighed in relief. "Thank you for understanding." He had stood up to her and she had backed down. If only it had always been this easy.

"I have a few cases to review with you later. Is that okay?" she asked, more gently and professionally than before.

"Yes, it is," he replied. "...Ms. Héderváry?"

"...yes, Mr. Edelstein?" She blinked at him slowly.

"I understand that we have a great deal to work through together to...tidy up all that has come to pass between us, but despite all that has occurred...and despite the fact that our romantic relationship is considerably beyond repair, I would...be quite humored if we could remain friends." He did, in part, blame her for what she had done, and it would take a great deal of work to get their relationship back to an easy, friendly level, but he did not wish to turn her away. She was an excellent lawyer, and an excellent woman to have on his side. The last thing he wanted was his own ADA turned against him.

She smiled at him a little bit, tilted her head to the side. "I think I can manage that."

* * *

"It's going to be fun. Stop worrying about it." Eduard flashed him one of those startlingly collected smiles as he pulled his silver Volvo into the concert hall parking lot. "You like music. This will take your mind off things."

_Things. _Gilbert. Gilbert. Elizaveta. Case. Vash. Gilbert. Gilbert. Gilbert. Confession. Gilbert. Gilbert. Gilbert.

Roderich sighed softly, pressing an elongated thumb and forefinger to his temples. He had been getting stress headaches all the time this past week. It seemed like his head was always paining him.

"Do you need an Advil, Roderich?" Eduard questioned, but Roderich shook his head.

"No, I'm fine," he replied, and opened the passenger side door of the Volvo, stepping out into the cool evening air. He wrapped his gray peacoat a bit more firmly around his slender frame and sighed into the night.

_I'm not going to think about him._

_I'm not going to think about him._

_I'm not going to think about him anymore._

Easier said than done, he thought bitterly to himself.

"Well, come on, then!" His blond companion was leaning on the hood of the car, watching him steadily. Eduard had on his usual sweater over a button-up shirt, and a classy black jacket over that. He had this intelligent-yet-sophisticated style to him, one that Roderich also possessed, but Eduard's was comfier, more relaxed. Probably because he was significantly more comfortable in his own skin than Roderich was.

"Right," the young gentleman replied breathlessly, hurrying after the younger attorney.

The Velt City Concert Hall was an impressive building, with a high domed ceiling painted with stars and clouds and constellations labeled in Latin. The moon waxed and waned in a continuous loop around the ceiling's edge, and there was a large golden sun in the very center of the sky, its painted rays shining down continuously on the orchestra seats and the balcony rows. Most of the details were marble – marble railings, marble stairs, marble pillars – and it gave one the feel of Greek or Roman antiquity upon entering. The stage was enormous, and somehow the presence of hundreds of chairs and black music stands and the grand piano in the center just made it seem bigger, like it was showing off how much it could fit. However, the seats and stands were vacant at that point in time; the musicians had not yet made their entrance.

"We can sit wherever we please, and it looks like we're early," Eduard reflected, and gestured to some seats in about the middle of the center section. Roderich nodded wordlessly and followed him there.

They sat together and talked quietly, and then they stopped talking for a while. A slight awkwardness settled between them. Eduard cleared his throat. Roderich recalled that they had not done many things together in the past; that was probably what made this so…uncomfortable.

However, the musicians at last began filing onto the stage, as well as the director, a stately middle-aged man dressed almost completely in white. The audience applauded him upon his entrance, and he inclined his body just slightly towards them, smiling modestly and accepting their praise with grace and poise. Roderich settled more comfortably into his seat, scanning the musicians onstage with a sort of despondent jealousy. He suppressed throwing a particularly nasty glance at the pianist, a man who appeared slightly older than Roderich – in his mid-thirties, perchance – as the tuxedoed professional settled himself onto the glossy black piano bench. No matter. He would enjoy this if he had to force himself.

After the musicians had tuned up, the director tapped his little rod on the music stand at the front, and the audience fell silent, anticipation hanging in the air. There was a breathless pause, and then the director began to direct, and the musicians began to play, and the entire concert hall was filled with Tchaikovsky's Piano Concerto No. 1.

"I love Tchaikovsky," Eduard mused out loud, and Roderich nodded a little bit, hardly hearing him. The music swept through him like a tidal wave, and he felt his vision go out of focus until his eyes eventually flickered shut. Nothing mattered. Nothing but the music. It was like that wave was washing his thoughts clean, lifting the burden of stress off of his shoulders, if just for now, if just for a little while. _Nothing but the music._

He knew this piece by heart. The piano's part moved from his brain to his arms to his fingers, and he played out what the pianist played in the air above his knees. Eduard watched him, slightly bemused, before turning his attention back to the stage. _I've done a good thing for him tonight, _the Estonian thought, pleased with himself.

Roderich let the music rock him a bit longer, and then he opened his eyes and began to watch each section, each musician, silently criticizing any mistakes he saw and commending those who did not make any. Violas, violins, cellos, and all the musicians were focused, their eyes closed or on their music or on the director. The pianist watched his music or watched his hands or let his head fall back and just played, the way Roderich liked to. And everything seemed so perfect, the music was so clear and the musicians so professional, and—

…wait.

Roderich's eyes were frozen in place. The trip came to a screeching halt. The music dimmed in the background until it was hardly a whisper.

There. In the violin section. Bow raised, pale cheek pressed against the instrument, eyes closed and brow focused and silver hair glinting in the stage lighting. There was Gilbert Beilschmidt, more serious than Roderich had ever seen him or ever imagined he would see him, there he was on that stage, playing violin in Piano Concerto No. 1, Roderich's favorite piece by Tchaikovsky.

_No. He…_

_He's a musician…_

Oh, now this was a thousand times more complicated.

* * *

The concert wasn't the same after that. Roderich couldn't focus; his eyes had locked on Gilbert, and there was no more solace in the music, no more freedom, just stress, stress, stress. _He's a musician? Of course he is, you saw that in the paper, that must have been him, they…but that was weeks ago, you cannot blame yourself for not remembering, and…ah…oh, sweet mother of Mozart, he's a musician…_

He was suddenly far more upset with himself for driving Gilbert away. (And he had been considerably upset already. To think he had missed this…this depth…who did he think he was?)

"Roderich? Are you alright?" Eduard asked, a note of concern in his voice.

"What!" Roderich started, jerking his head too fast towards Eduard. He rubbed his aching neck, painfully aware of how bewildered he probably looked. "I…oh, yes, fine…"

"Are you certain? You were quite relaxed a minute ago, but now you're tenser than I've seen you all day…"

Damn that man and his well-honed deduction skills.

"Well, I…just recalled something I must do when I return home, that is all…"

Eduard gave him a skeptical look. Roderich found himself scrambling to keep his mask in place, knowing Gilbert was so close to him, so close that he could see him, he could hear him…

But what did it matter? Gilbert didn't matter to him! He didn't! He was just a…a common criminal with an uncommon talent, that was all. Still a criminal. Still not worthy of his time.

Still…still…

Still, he…

There was something in him that…wanted him…despite the danger, or perhaps because of the danger…something in him that was restless with anticipation whenever he thought of the red-eyed young man, something…

"Roderich." Eduard snapped his fingers in front of the brunette's face. "Hey."

"What?"

"The concerto's almost over."

"Oh…yes…" He turned his attention back to the stage, fighting to find that peace of mind he'd possessed before his eyes had fallen on Gilbert's silver hair. It didn't return. He had lost the music.

_Is that the kind of power he has over you now? You hardly know him._

Clearly, Roderich thought bitterly to himself, watching the accused criminal run the bow over and over the strings, his pallid fingers moving along the slender neck of the violin. It was beautiful to watch, the way his eyes would occasionally open just a sliver to look at his music, and Roderich could just see the red of his irises. The smooth, pale arms and hands manipulated the instrument masterfully and effortlessly. He was _good; _Roderich played the violin himself, and he could tellhe was talented. The thought of those gifted hands working just as effortlessly in other places sent a shiver down his spine as Roderich felt his mind taking a turn down a more corrupt road.

_Those rough, agile hands on his hips, pushing him back against the wall, sliding up his sides, down his chest, teasing his beauty mark…_

Stop it stop it stop it.

He squeezed his eyes closed, but that only worsened it; now he could _see _it, too, in his mind's eye, taunting him. He crossed his legs in annoyance over an unwanted distraction and forced himself to think of the most unappetizing thing he could imagine. Work? Yes, work would suffice. Work and…and Chinese food. Roderich hated Chinese food.

Ah, there we go. Better now.

"Roderich? It's over, let's go."

The DA snapped back into reality, and a sense of regret took hold of him immediately; he'd missed the end of the concerto? Gott verdammt…this…this was getting out of hand, but he couldn't…

He needed to see him.

He needed to see him right now.

No more denying this. He could no longer do so.

"There is something I must do first," he said breathlessly. In a moment, he had risen from his seat and walked quickly out of the room with a determined step. He was in one of the hallways already before he even heard Eduard call his name in confusion.

_You're not supposed to be back here. Get out now, before you get arrested or something and humiliate yourself in front of everyone._

I can't, he thought, not now. I have to do this first. I have to see him. I can't fucking take this anymore.

He had to be around here somewhere…there, there was a stream of musicians filing out, undoubtedly to some quieter, clearer room where they would pack up their instruments, grab their jackets, and head out to their cars. He had to be here somewhere in this crowd. Roderich's deep purplish eyes scanned the crowd anxiously, disregarding blonde heads, brown heads, black heads, red heads, until at last, his eyes settled on a more familiar head of silver hair.

Gilbert Beilschmidt was chatting somewhat animatedly with one of the other musicians, an attractive young blonde woman in a classic black dress. She seemed to hang off of his every word, her pale green eyes fixed hungrily on his face, full lips pushed out intentionally in a manner probably meant to be seductive. She nodded fervently at every point he made, and smiled too sweetly at him every time he looked her way. Immediately, she annoyed the hell out of Roderich, but she also intimidated him; for a moment, her presence froze him in place, and he could do naught but watch them walk down the hall together.

Then, with a few quick words and a batting of her eyelashes, the girl vanished into the crowd, and Gilbert was left alone, making his way down the hall without a partner in conversation. He soon fell behind the busier members of the orchestra and cruised down the hallway at his own pace, taking his time. Suddenly, he seemed sadder in his singularity. Lonely. Was he always like this when he wasn't trying to put on a show?

Roderich gathered his nerves and advanced. "Gilbert!"

The albino halted, recognizing the voice all too easily, but he did not dare turn around. Roderich's heart nearly stopped, and he felt his breath hitch, his feet once again fixing to the floor as if welded to the spot. There was a long moment of intense silence between the two of them.

"What do you want?" Gilbert asked huskily after a moment.

"I…" He had no idea what he wanted, but he couldn't let Gilbert, know that, he couldn't let on to his weakness— "I don't know." _Dammit._

The other man turned and looked impassively over his shoulder. "That's not an answer."

Roderich bit his lip and looked at his feet, suddenly shy. "I know…"

"You know, you don't know. Which is it?"

Roderich was silent.

Gilbert sighed, running a hand through his hair. "What? I get that you don't want me, so just leave me alone. I'm just a fucking criminal, right?"

"I…" Roderich tried to gather his words. "I only wished to speak with you…"

"And why the fuck would you want to do that, huh?"

"I…please, I…"

Gilbert shook his head, and Roderich was silenced. "What do you want from me?" His tone was softer now, frustrated and almost pleading.

"I don't want anything from you," Roderich responded, an edge of desperation in his voice. Why was he doing this? This was stupid and reckless, and he should know better than to think he had any chance of getting Gilbert back after what he had done.

"Then why are you here?" snapped Gilbert, glaring at Roderich over his shoulder.

Roderich fixed his eyes on his nice black shoes and smiled humorlessly, almost sadly. "I…Gilbert, I…have made a mistake…I should never have…I…I let myself…"

It wasn't just the music. The music had served largely as a catalyst, but now he realized that there was something he could not force himself to deny any longer. He had feelings for Gilbert, and there was nothing he could do about it.

The albino fell silent, as if shocked that Roderich was willing to admit he was wrong. He paused, then turned towards him fully, his eyes still wary, but his stance less rigid than before. For a moment, he pursed his lips, and then he spoke. "You really hurt me," he said almost defensively, looking down and then back up. "That was fucking low of you, denying me like that. Denying what happened."

"I know." Roderich closed his eyes, trying to steady his breathing. "I…know that I…I should have…" He struggled for words for a few more moments, uncertain and uncomfortable with trying to express his feelings in words.

"Hey, Rod."

Roderich's eyes shot open as he heard the voice so close to him, felt the calloused hand caress his face. He looked up into Gilbert's eyes, startled.

"Shut up," Gilbert breathed, leaning in close to him.

Roderich put a hand on his chest, as if to stop him. "I'm sorry."

"I know." The taller man smiled against Roderich's lips, then pressed his own to them gently. Roderich felt a soft sound escape him and realized how much he had missed the feeling of the other man's lips, his hands…

A shiver ran down his spine. He wrapped his arms around Gilbert, pulling himself closer to him. Gilbert made a little noise of surprise and satisfaction, wrapping his free arm around Roderich's waist and pulling him in even closer than before. "Knew you'd give in, Papillion…" he mumbled softly into Roderich's mouth, and, to Roderich's surprise, Gilbert's hands stayed above his bum for once. He felt a surge of appreciation at the man's courtesy. He hadn't even been aware that Gilbert Beilschmidt was capable of civility.

"Roderich!" The familiar voice cut through his thoughts, and Roderich gasped softly in surprise. Oh, scheisse…if Eduard found out…

"Gilbert," he warned, placing a hand on his chest.

"…right." The albino drew away reluctantly, one hand remaining on Rod's hip.

"Roderich? We have to go!"

"I need to…" Roderich began, gesturing down the hall.

"Sure." Gilbert nodded, though his hand had not left Roderich's hip. "When…when can I see you again?"

"Ah…" Roderich pursed his lips thoughtfully. "I will…call you when we may meet again safely and unhindered."

"Yeah! Wait…how do you know my number?" Gilbert grinned at him, arching an eyebrow.

"Don't flatter yourself," Roderich replied with a smirk. "I found the paper you slipped in my pocket and I have a good memory for numbers."

"Awwww, so you didn't spend three hours trying to memorize my number? Heh. Disappointing." The grin grew, and he kissed Roderich again teasingly. "Alright, Papillion. Go on. I ain't going anywhere soon."

"…I want to see you again," Roderich affirmed.

"I know," Gilbert replied with a grin. "Go on."

"This…secrecy…"

"Hey." Gilbert touched his face lightly. "We'll make this work, okay? We'll take it slow. Ish. I mean, hell yeah, I wanna have sex with you again, but not if you're gonna run off like that." He laughed a little.

"I would not do such a thing again," Roderich muttered, looking down.

"Yeah, I know. I didn't know, but…yeah, I do now. It ain't hard to tell when someone like you's being honest, y'know? So…head back to your friend. We'll figure it out. Trust me." And somehow, Roderich…well, he did not exactly trust _him, _but he trusted him on this. Gilbert's voice was exceptionally persuasive.

"…okay," he agreed after a moment, looking up seriously into his eyes.

"Now, get lost. And call me soon." Gilbert grinned, and this time he did smack Roderich's backside teasingly. Roderich made a (rather humiliating) sound reminiscent of a squeak, and Gilbert's grin shrank to a sweeter smile as his cheeks turned slightly pink.

"So cute," he mumbled, and Roderich flushed and looked away at the compliment.

"Don't be ridiculous," he muttered shyly, giving Gilbert a light shove. The albino laughed before pulling his brunette companion into a tight hug, pressing his cool cheek against Roderich's. The embrace was surprisingly comfortable; Roderich judged that Gilbert was only perhaps two inches taller than him, so the other man did not have to bend over awkwardly to hug the more effeminate of the two.

Roderich wrapped his arms slowly around Gilbert in response, breathing in his scent for a moment. A musky scent…and spices. Perhaps a bit of cinnamon or cloves…b-but it was probably just his soap, of course.

Gilbert chuckled low in his ear. "Alright, go on." He released him slowly, Roderich following suit before smiling politely at the red-eyed man. Gilbert's grin back was actually rather warm, and Roderich felt himself blush again before turning on his heel and hurrying off.

"Roderich! There you are!" Eduard hurried up to him moments later, a little frown on his face. "I was looking everywhere for you! Where on earth did you go?"

"I merely went to the bathroom, Eduard, I see no reason why you should be making such a fuss," Roderich responded dismissively, walking right past him as if nothing had happened, as if his lips were not pink from the kisses and his cheeks were not pink from the man who gave them. "Come, let's go. I have a considerable amount of work to do once I return home."

"…right." Eduard sounded slightly confused, but he shrugged his shoulders and followed the District Attorney out of the concert hall, into the parking lot, and towards Eduard's waiting silver Volvo.

* * *

**(A/N: GAH I LOVE THIS CHAPTER. -happy wiggle- Seriously, it was really wonderful to write. Despite being a bit of a drama-mongerer, I do love fixing things up in the end.**

**Though, I have to warn you all, Gilbert and Roderich's trials are far from over. We've got a lot of ground left to cover, so I hope you all stick around.**

**Until next time!)  
**


	11. Chapter 11

**(A/N: Hey, guys! Here is the eleventh chapter of Verdict.**

**This chapter is pretty intense, as chapters of this story go, but it includes more Ivan and more drama! Now that things have kicked off between Roderich and Gilbert, there's plenty of plot to unfold to test the both of them.**

**Hope you enjoy!)  
**

* * *

"What did you say?"

"I...I'm sorry, sir..." The voices in the dark spoke in Russian, all of them. "We could not...there was nothing we could do..."

"We send a threat directly to the chief of police, and yet the investigation has not been called off...?" The boss examined the barrel of his pistol and smiled one of his innocent little smiles. "I suppose I couldn't expect any less from Arthur Kirkland. He is stubborn...but we shall break him." He laughed, a short, high-pitched, surprisingly sinister sound. "If we can get the mayor to call off the investigation himself...ooh, perhaps we can even provoke a pardon from him, if we use the right...leverage..."

Ivan Braginski picked a sunflower from the tall vase at the center of the table and pressed it to his lips. The other tall, yellow blooms were blocking his face from the view of his henchmen. They sat in a row across from him, shivering in fear.

"L-leverage, sir?"

"Da, leverage." Braginski examined the gun again with his flat violet eyes, his air almost childlike as he held the flower close to his face. "Do you know what I might mean by that, Petrov?"

"W-well, sir..." mumbled one of the men across from him. He was blonde, perhaps in his mid-thirties. The bare light made him look almost sickly. "We...I...if it wouldn't be too presumptuous..."

"It's not." Braginski raised an eyebrow. "Come now, you must have some sort of idea."

"I-I...s-s-sir, w-we could...th-threaten the mayor..."

Braginski laughed again. "Threaten him how?"

"W-w-w-we could send him...a-a-a d-death threat...o-or—"

Braginski listened mutely for just a moment. Then he slowly lowered the Russian-made pistol at Petrov and pulled the trigger. BANG. The other four lackeys jumped, the whites of their eyes flashing like frightened animals as they jerked away from the victim, shaking in horror. Petrov's entire body stiffened, then slumped forward, the bullet wound in his forehead leaking red. The boss looked up slowly, his eyes in shadow, and gestured to the guards at the door with a little jerk of his head; the men moved forward, picked up the limp body, and removed it from the room with silent efficiency.

"Any better ideas?" Braginski asked, his voice just as smooth and almost cheerful as it had been a moment before.

The four men in the chairs were silent.

Braginski's lips formed into a pout. "Do I have to shoot all of you?"

"We could assassinate him!" one of the men cried out.

"Hmmm..." Braginski looked thoughtful, examining his still-smoking gun. "I've thought of that. Any other ideas?"

"S-sir, w-we could...we could kidnap him!" one of the men barked desperately.

"Kidnap who? The mayor?"

"Ye-yes, sir! I mean, no, sir, I mean..."

"Don't be scared," Braginski teased with a smile. "No, I don't think kidnapping the mayor would work...he is too resilient..."

"O-of course! I-I'm sorry, please...we should just shoot him..."

Braginski made a slicing gesture with his hand, and the lower mobster fell silent.

"Don't be so unsure of yourself. Stick to your original plan, it's a good idea. In fact, it was just what I was thinking," Ivan said, leaning back and setting the gun on the table. A soft, collective sigh of relief echoed from the four on the opposite side of the table as their boss examined the sunflower in his hands. "But what if it wasn't the mayor...? What if it was...someone close to him...?"

"His brother is already dead..." one of the men piped up.

Braginski laughed malevolently. "Oh, I know," he cooed. "I meant someone else...someone he cares about...someone like..."

He peeked over the flower and smiled.

"Arthur Kirkland."

There was a momentary silence as Braginski allowed this response to sink in.

"The...chief of police?" one of the men asked tentatively.

"Yes, just the man we need." Braginski smirked. "Comrade Beketov. Comrade Blotski."

The two men in question stiffened and looked up.

"Bring me Arthur Kirkland. I want him here within two days. Do not fail." The darkness that weighed on the last three syllables foreshadowed the consequences waiting for Beketov and Blotski should they be unsuccessful.

Rising immediately, the two men saluted their leader and hurried from the room, excited and relieved to be free of Ivan Braginski's dark aura. Not a word was spoken between them until they were out of earshot of Braginski and the two remaining men, who had not yet been murdered or assigned a task.

There was a brief lull after the door clicked closed before Braginski spoke once more. "And what about my sister...? Any news?"

"She has escaped from jail, sir, but we have located her."

"And do Kirkland and our most distinguished Mayor Jones still insist on pursuing her...?" Braginski plucked a single petal off the sunflower.

"Yes, as does District Attorney Edelstein, sir," the more confident of the two cronies added.

"Does he?" Braginski raised his eyebrows. "That Austrian pest needs to learn his place." There was a sudden edge to his voice, a knife of frustration that made the men across from him jump. Ivan's hands tightened on the stem of his sunflower until it nearly snapped; the men could hear the sound of his leather gloves squeaking from the pressure. "He is going to put that filthy piece of _scum _Gilbert Beilschmidt in jail for the rest of his miserable life, and nothing more. Hah! Thinking he can take on _me. _The fool." He shook his head and ran a hand through his beige hair, tilting his face up towards the bare bulb swinging above them. The stark white light cast his face in an eerie contrast of pale skin and ominous shadow, and the men shivered; the way the light illuminated Braginski's fair hair made him look like an avenging angel.

"What would you like us to do...sir?"

Braginski looked contemplative for a moment. "I want you," he said slowly, "to teach Roderich Edelstein a lesson. Remind him where he shouldn't meddle." A dark smile crossed the Russian's face as he plucked another petal from the sunflower and allowed it to drop, watching the glimpse of yellow spiral lazily through the air.

"We shall show this city who is really in charge here."

* * *

Roderich Edelstein was in a surprisingly good mood.

It was an unfortunate fact of the District Attorney's reality that he simply was not a happy man. He had never led a life that was truly happy, and, though capable of optimism, Roderich's outlook on life was overall rather cynical. He had been plagued by depression at different points during his life, and between the restriction and repression he had endured over the course of his existence, Roderich had never been a particularly cheerful individual.

However, this evening, he was practically aglow with happiness. At that moment, it didn't matter that Gilbert Beilschmidt was his defendant and that Roderich was supposed to be building a case against him. What mattered was that he had fixed things with Gilbert himself. He would see him again...he would...

Roderich sighed lightly, his violet eyes drifting up towards the sky. There were few streetlamps or harsh lights on in this part of town, and the sky was clearer, darker. The most resilient stars were visible, little pinpricks of white winking down at him, and the moon hung, full and round, just above the tops of the buildings, like an opal set in velvet. It was beautiful, Roderich reflected, clasping his hands behind his back. There was something about the night that set him at peace, something in the darkness and the way it revealed all the mysteries of the sky. Roderich had a fondness for stargazing; it was unfortunate that his opportunities to do so were limited, living in a city, but...

There were always places where the lights were almost unnoticeable, where the sky was as close to clear as it got without leaving the city entirely. He would have to take Gilbert there someday—

"Good evening, District Attorney."

Roderich froze. The familiar click of a pistol being loaded resounded in the darkness behind him.

"I'll have to ask you not to move."

The voices were deep, confident, and accented – he guessed it was Eastern European, Ukrainian or...

Russian...

Braginski.

Roderich raised his hands slowly, wondering if Braginski meant to have him shot right here. His heart pounded in his chest. He wasn't ready to die. Not now. He couldn't...not after...he had so much he had yet to do! Roderich knew the risks of being elected District Attorney in a city so infected by crime, but...he was not ready. He was still afraid to die.

His composure hardly shifted. Best not let them know you are afraid, Roderich. You are strong. Perhaps they won't shoot you...

"Are you going to kill me?" he asked calmly, forbidding his voice from shaking.

A second voice behind him laughed. "Nyet, good Mr. Edelstein, those aren't the boss's orders." He felt two pairs of hands twist his arms behind his back and the unfamiliar coldness of the gun against his temple. The two men – both significantly larger than Roderich – dragged him bodily into the nearest alley, out of sight, and shoved him against the wall, his face in the dirty bricks of the side of a building. Roderich repressed a shiver of revulsion.

"What do you want?" His voice was becoming less calm by the moment, as much as he tried to hold it together.

"You're acquainted with the Kitchen Knife Murders?"

"Of course I am," Roderich hissed. "I was to prosecute, before the suspect broke free. I had half of a case ready."

"Well, _Mr. Edelstein," _one of the men snarled in his ear, "we can't have you doing that. It's not your place in this story to go poking your nose where it doesn't belong." The man that was now chiefly holding him shoved him harder against the wall. Roderich winced. _Story? _"You see, your...suspect, Natalya Arlovskaya, is Ivan Braginski's little sister...and he doesn't take kindly to the idea of his baby sister being locked up in prison. He's only got one sibling left. I'm sure you can understand his motivation."

"I do not take orders from Ivan Braginski," Roderich snapped. His own Austrian accent was becoming harsher and more prominent as his anxiety level rose. "Natalya Arlovskaya is a felon, and shall be treated as such. It is not my fault she was caught. I welcome it."

"Snotty little bitch, aren't you, Mr. Edelstein?" The title was more mocking than anything, spoken in his ear with venom. "Listen, we don't want to kill you. You're the best DA this city has ever seen, according to the boss. We need you to put away Gilbert Beilschmidt; the boss wants his revenge for the death of his big sister. But we really can't have you meddling where you don't belong..."

Gilbert. Roderich swallowed hard. "So what do you plan to do with me?"

"What will it take to convince you not to prosecute Miss Arlovskaya?"

"Nothing," Roderich snapped. "I shall not be swayed by the threats or requests of scum."

The man behind him hissed and pinned Roderich to the wall. His hand trailed down the smaller man's back until it wrapped around his thigh, pressing into his groin. "I wouldn't be so cocky."

Roderich felt a jolt of fear run through him and tried to jerk away. "R-release me!"

The goon laughed, pressing himself into Roderich's still-clothed backside. "What do you think, comrade?" he barked at the other man. "He's enough like a woman, isn't he? We could make quick work of him."

The other seemed to hesitate. "I-I don't know about this...the boss said threaten him...w-we could beat him up instead..."

"I don't think that'd quite sink in. He's too persistent." The gun trailed down Roderich's face, down his neck, over his shoulder until it pressed against his back. Roderich couldn't breathe. He was frozen in terror, eyes wide, heart racing. _No no no no no no no no no..._

"But I know something that would..._sink in..." _The man laughed foully. Roderich heard a fly unzip. Suddenly regaining his ability to move, he thrashed in the man's grip, screaming for help at the top of his lungs, but the man threw him to the ground and pinned him there, hands on his arms, sitting on his midsection. Roderich tried to kick, but the man pinned his legs with his own.

"Zhukov, listen, this isn't what the boss asked us to do!" the second man said with a little bit more urgency. "Let's just give him a few good kicks and get out of here!"

Roderich was consumed by fear. He kicked, he screamed, he thrashed about, yelling curses in German and trying to keep tears from coming to his eyes. _This can't happen. This can't happen! Please!_

"I want to give him something he'll really remember," Zhukov hissed, jerking Roderich's pants and underwear down almost to his knees. He ripped Roderich's shirt and jacket down until the pale smoothness of his shoulders was visible. Roderich screamed, and Zhukov hit him with the gun. "SHUT UP, you worthless KRAUT!"

"Zhukov, stop!" the other man cried, grabbing the assailant's shoulder – but Zhukov just threw him off and ran his free hand hungrily down the flesh of Roderich's thigh. Roderich thrashed and received a blow closer to the head.

"Quite the body you have...look at these hips...just like a woman." Roderich's indignation flared again, and he snarled, writhing underneath him. "Now, now, don't fight, you'll just make this harder on yourself..." He felt fingers slide across the flesh of his buttocks and bucked in fury, but to no avail. As he felt the man hovering just above him, he squeezed his eyes shut, bracing himself—

But the violation never came.

Roderich opened his eyes. The sound of yelling and fighting echoed behind him, but he was too terrified to move; he curled up into himself, trying to cover the bare parts of him but shaking too much to fix his clothes. He felt the tears spring unwillingly to his eyes and let his mind shut down, wall after wall closing around the stronghold of his mind. _Shut it out. Shut it all out. You're safe in your head._

And then, Roderich passed out of consciousness.

* * *

"Roderich. Roderich. Hey...wake up."

_I don't want to._

"Come on...Roderich, please..."

_I don't want to wake up..._

"Roderich, it's me..."

_Go away..._

"It's Gilbert."

_Gilbert... _The name was familiar. Gilbert...right...of course.

Grudgingly, Roderich opened his eyes. His eyelids felt like they were carved from rock. He blinked a few times, slowly, to clear the blur...and there, lingering above him, was the quirky half-smile and warm red eyes of Gilbert Beilschmidt.

"Gilbert..." he managed, his voice humiliatingly weak.

"Hey." The albino's smile widened. "How ya feeling?"

Roderich's consciousness stirred. The events that had occurred just before his blackout rushed back to him, and he felt the walls closing around his mind again. His body shook with the memory and he did not respond.

Gilbert's smile faded slightly, but gained a note of sympathy. "Yeah, I guessed as much...heh...but you're okay now, Rod. You're safe. Okay? Hey, look at me."

Roderich's violet eyes met Gilbert's crimson, and he felt Gilbert's rough fingers interlace with his own, giving him a reassuring squeeze. "Where am I?" he whispered.

"You're at my house. Well...Lud's house." He chuckled slightly. "This is my room, anyway."

"...what? How did I get here?" And, more importantly, who was the one that rescued him?

"Well, uh..." Gilbert pursed his lips. "The alley where you got...attacked...it isn't too far from this place. Lud's a pretty upstanding civilian, so any time there's a disturbance, he's the first man downstairs to check it out...and me, well. I was pretty sure I knew that scream." His smile turned a little wry as he and Roderich simultaneously remembered their confrontations at the county jail. "So we hurried down there as fast as we could. Looks like we got there just in time, huh?"

"You certainly did," Roderich mumbled, looking away.

"We beat the shit out of those two goons and called the cops, but by the time they got there, the guys were gone..." Gilbert frowned. "The police want a statement from you about the attack, though...is that okay?"

Roderich tensed, another lock clicking into place in his head.

Gilbert nodded slightly; the brunette's expression spoke the words Roderich himself could not say. "You've got time," he reassured him. "Just...rest for now, okay?"

Roderich nodded slightly and allowed his eyes to close again, his entire being still exhausted. He was asleep within the minute, Gilbert watching him, listening to his breathing become deeper and steadier.

The silver-haired man smiled softly at the Austrian and leaned forward, placing a gentle kiss on his forehead before he righted himself. _Those bastards will pay for what they did, _he hissed in his mind. He could still recall the events of a few hours before, clear as day.

"_Gilbert, do you hear that?"_

"_Hear what, Lud—" It only took Gilbert a second before the screaming reached his ears as well, and he froze. That voice. That was...it couldn't be..._

"_We've got to go, now. Something's wrong." Ludwig was already at the door, grabbing his jacket and throwing it on. Gilbert leapt to his feet, throwing down his magazine and racing after him. _No no no no no. It can't be Roderich. It can't be. _He snatched his own jacket off the peg and raced down the stairs after Ludwig, neglecting to even shut the door to the apartment as the two Germans dashed for the door out of the complex. _

_The evening air was cold, but Gilbert hardly noticed; his mind was fixed on those screams. German curses, cries for help...rough with terror, yes, but undoubtedly, undoubtedly Roderich. "Hurry!" he barked, nearly overtaking Ludwig as the two brothers sprinted towards the source of the sound. They came tearing around the corner and stopped at the mouth of the alleyway, the moonlight throwing their figures into silhouette to the two Russian gangbangers in the alley._

_Before the man standing could even react, Gilbert yelled a war cry and flew forward, throwing a well-aimed punch at the crouching man's head. The man fell off of the form below him, rolling over onto his ass as he tried desperately to yank up his pants. But Gilbert didn't give him a moment to prepare. He charged him, grabbed him by the front of his shirt and punched him again and again – in the face, in the stomach, even a sharp kick thrown to the man's exposed groin. The criminal bellowed in pain, trying to fight back, but Gilbert's rage was murderous. "How DARE you, how FUCKING DARE YOU try to hurt him, you piece of SHIT!" Punch. Punch. Punch. The man's nose was gushing blood._

"_GILBERT!" He felt Lud's big hands on his shoulders, jerking him back. "Stop it! The last thing we need is you being accused of a crime you actually committed!"_

_Gilbert was shaking with rage as he stepped away from the man. The beaten goon looked up at him in horror, face bloody, then took off, after the other (thoroughly beaten) mobster who had already escaped._

"_They got away," Gilbert hissed. "We have to go after them!"_

"_Nein," Ludwig grunted. "Gilbert, they're gone. What we have to do now is call the police." He glanced to the fallen form of Roderich, pathetic and half-naked and curled into himself. "Take care of him instead while I phone this in."_

_Gilbert nodded, falling immediately to Roderich's side. The brunette was unconscious – probably from the shock, Gilbert figured – and his clothes were torn. Heart aching, Gilbert pulled Roderich's pants back up and re-fastened them. He took off the ripped-up shirt and coat and pulled his own jacket over Roderich's shoulders, wiping the man's dirt-streaked face gently. "Roderich," he breathed, "I'm so sorry..."_

_Carefully, with more dexterity than one might expect from Gilbert Beilschmidt, he took Roderich into his arms and lifted him bridal style, carrying him back into the apartment complex._

Gilbert felt his throat tighten with fury. Those fucking...there wasn't even a name for scum like that. The dregs of the earth. How dare they try to hurt him, HOW DARE THEY...

And worst of all...

Worst of all, he hadn't been there to protect Roderich...

It didn't matter if the man was still supposed to be prosecuting him, Gilbert fucking _cared _about him. And the fact that he hadn't been there when Roderich needed him...it brought an unspeakable guilt down on him. He had saved him, in the end, but...

_Only just in time...you should have been there..._

Of course, a part of his mind argued, there was no way he could have known, but...still...

_Will he hold this against me? Does he blame me for not saving him sooner? _he wondered, hugging himself.

Ludwig was on the phone with the police in the other room again. After a few grunts and brief responses, he hung up, looking a bit alarmed. Gilbert frowned, jerking himself out of his own thoughts. "Hey, what is it?"

"The police can't take this case right now," Ludwig muttered, running a hand through his slicked-back blonde hair.

"What?" Gilbert snapped indignantly. "Why the hell not?"

Ludwig looked up, his blue eyes solemn.

"The chief of police has been kidnapped."

* * *

**(A/N: AND THE PLOT THICKENS.  
**

**There now, you didn't honestly think I'd let anything that horrible happen to Roddy, did you? I love him far too much. **

**A lot more of the plot should become clear through this chapter and the coming ones, so I hope you all look forward to it. Reviews are much appreciated! See you all next time!)  
**


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